11 



'■. •■ : ■ \ ■ ;. V 5 • 

a! 



Illlllllllll 
I 



-: : ■ 























































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-- * 8 



































But does this import us anything? Surely much, if it shall lead us to the clear 
understanding of the words we use in discourse. For, "as far as we know not our own 
meaning" — as far as " our purposes are not endowed with words to make them known" — 
so far we "gabble like things most brutish." But the importance rises higher, when we 
reflect upon the application of words to metaphysics. And when I say metaphysics, 
you will be pleased to remember that all general reasoning, all politics, law, morality, 
are merely metaphysical. — Hobhe Tooke. 

Upon this ground it is that I am bold to think that morality is capable of demon- 
stration as well as mathematics.— Locke. 



Ipswich : Printed by J. M. Burton. 



NUCES PHILOSOPHIC^; 



PHILOSOPHY OF THINGS 



AS DEVELOPED FROM THE 



STUDY OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF WORDS. 



EDWARD JOHNSON, SURGEON 



AUTHOR OF "LIFE, HEALTH, AND DISEASE," 




LONDON: 

tfPKDT, MARSHALL & CO. IPSYTC(M BUKTON. 
1842. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

xiv 



Kant's Philosophy ..... 

Coleridge's Aids to Reflection . . . xvii 

Remarks on Brougham's observations on Pronouns xiii and xix 
We work with words as with figures . xvii, xxxiv 



Pritchard's Physical History of Man 

Hall on acquiring Latin .... 

Extract from A. B. Johnson 

Grammar and Grammarians 

Foreign Words a cause of obscurity in Language 

Man is passive .... 

Importance of the subject .... 

Sources of Ignorance and Error 

Arbitrary meanings ..... 

Harris's Hermes ..... 

Connexion between words and things 

Meanings of words not determined by the context 

Dead duck 

Relation between words and knowledge 

The reader of a book has no concern with the writer of 
that book ...... 



xxvi 

xxvii 

xxxiii 

xxxiv 

xxxv 

xxxvi 

1 

6 

8 

9 

24 

41 

43 

47 

50 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 



No ideas independent of things and sensation . xv, 52 

The office of words illustrated by reference to a peep-show 52 

Ideas not single ..... 56 

Things must be called by their right names . . 56 

Quibbling ...... 58 

Good, well, bad, better, and best ... 60 

Barbarism and Civilization .... xxvi, 65 

Nature the sole dictionary or expositor of words . 75 

Instance of the manner in which we use words hourly 

without ever inquiring after their meaning . 78 

Origin of the use of the word Idea . . . 80 

What an author writes is not to be taken for granted on 

the authority of the author's great name . 91 

Locke's ideas of Reflection . . .94 and 399 

We get ideas through the organs of the senses solely 103 

Words are all, directly or indirectly, the signs of sensible 

objects ...... 103 

Words cannot put any new idea into the mind . 104 

Brutes can remember and know that like causes will 

produce like effects . . . .105 

Why brutes cannot reason so extensively as man . 107 

Difference between brute and human knowledge is one 

of degree and amount — not of kind . . 109 

What is a poker ? . . . . .114 

The meaning of a word is that sensation which is brought 
to the recollection of a man when he hears that 

word pronounced . . . . 124 

Conjunctions, adverbs, prepositions, &c. . . 125 



CONTENTS. Vll 



Two sorts of words only are necessary to the communica- 
tion of ideas . . . . .128 

Home Tooke greatly misunderstood . . 131 

Formation of verbs . . . . .132 

Abstract of Home Tooke's theory of language . 143 

Words must be translated into the other words which 

they stand for . . . . 175 

Most of our knowledge derived through the eye . 176 

Reply to Examiner and Spectator . . . 178 

This work not hostile to Religion . . xxxviii, 184 

Lord Brougham's account of Mind . . . 205 

Lord Brougham's panegyric of Home Tooke . xiii, 225 

Home Tooke not understood by Lord Brougham . 235 

The questions " Who is ?" and " What is ?" . 236 

The word "is" used in spurious senses . . 240 

" What is ?" signifies, "After what manner exists" . 244 

Not sufficient to mention a thing once only . . 247 

Words can only explain words . . . 254 

We ask for one kind of knowledge when we desire 

another and different kind . . . 260 

The word mind signifies matter . . . 273 

The word mind erected into a verb . . 274 

Origin of the phrase "Abstract Ideas" . . 274 

It is not sufficient to know what we mean ourselves 275 

Lord Brougham's reasoning about mind . . 278 

Nature of those operations said to be performed by the 

mind ...... 283 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 



The faculty of remembering a sixth sense . . 296 

Speech defines the difference between the earthly nature 

of man, and the inferior animals . . 313 

Instinctive wish to know . . . 317, 482 

Human sacrifices ..... 322 

A fable .327 

Public opinion ..... 329 

Abstract ideas ....... 332 

Words compared with algebraic signs . . 336 

Etymology ...... 345 

Mr. E. Bushby's idea of pure space . . 358 

Connatural Ideas ..... 358 

Personal identity .... xxxiii, 359 

Anthropophagi and anthropophagy . . . 369 

Moral Mathemathics, or Human Duties . . 440 

Scriptures and creeds .... 440 

Suicides ...... 467 

Education . . . . . .481 

Vice and crime ..... 491 

Education hostile to Religion . . . 494 

Political Mathematics . . . . 550 





INDEX OF WORDS. 








^-e^M^^ 


PAGE. 


ABSTEACT 






100, 275 


ACCIDENT 






361 


ACORN 






31 


ARM 






35 


ATTENTION 






416 


BALLAST . 






31 


BETTER 






71 


BEING 






389 


BELIEF 






426 


BLACKBIRD 






27 


BOOK . 






34 


BRIDAL 






31 


BROTHER 






38 


BROWN 






32 


CAUSATION 






385 


COHESION 






388 


COLLAR 






34 


CONNECTED 






230 


CONVERSATION 




379 


CONJUNCTION . 




9 


CUCKOO 


. 


. . . . 


27 


CUT 






XXV 



INDEX OF WORDS. 



DISTANCE 409 

DUTY 446 

EDUCATION 481 

EQUITATION 379 

ESSE 257 

ESSENCE 410 

EXCELLENT 72 

EXIST 254 

EXTENSION 371 

EXISTENCE ....... 419 

FACT 173 

FEELING 385 

FINGER ........ 34 

GHOST 421 

GIFT 274 

GLASS 35 

GOOD 73 



HEARING 


. . . 385 


HONOR .... 


421 


IDEA 


391 


IMAGINATION 


381 


INTELLECT .... 


185 


ING AND ION 


386 


ISLAND 


31 


JUDGMENT .... 


416 


JUDGE . 


XXV 


JUST .... 


434 



NDEX OF WOEDS. 



PAGE. 

know . . . . , . , . . 423 

LID 35 

LIFE 421 

MEANING 78 

MEMORY 422 

MEAN 423 

MIND 199, xxi 

MOUTH . 34 

MOTHER 38 

MOTION . . 378 

NEIGHBOUR ....... 31 

NOTION 385 

NOTHING 418 

NUMBER 410 

OUGHT . 447 

PAIN 410 

PERCEPTION 402 

POWER 416 

PUET ..... .... 27 

QUALITY 347 

RATIO . . 379 

REDBREAST . . . . . . . 27 

REFORM ........ 58 

REFLECTION ....... 94 

REASON 313 

RIGHT 430 

SENSATION . 379 

SEEING 385 

SHOULDER 34 



INDEX OF WORDS. 



TAGE. 

SIGHT 271 

SMITH 35 

SMELLING 385 

SPACE 407 

SPEAK XXV 

SOLIDITY 360 

STEAM VESSEL 26 

STREET 35 

STAND ........ 253 

STATION 379 

SUBSTANCE 390 

TASTING 385 

THING xxvi, xxxvi, 115 

THINK ........ 287 

THANK . 305 

THICKNESS 405 

TIME 420 

TOOTH 35 

to 247 

TO BE 233 

to go ........ 382 

TRUTH 171 

understanding . . : . . . . 389 

vision 379 

virtue 12, 422 

WHITENESS . . 405 

wit . 39 

will ....... xxxvii, 411 

YELLOW HAMMER ...... 27 

YELLOW 34 

YATAGHAN 260 



PREFACE. 



The chief object of Home Tooke's work was to prove presump- 
tively, by circumstantial evidence drawn from the nature of 
language, that there is no such thing as abstraction. 

Of this work Lord Brougham has said, that it "is so eminently 
natural and reasonable" that "all men are convinced of its 
truth." 

The object of the present work is to apply this doctrine of 
no-abstraction to metaphysics, morality, and politics. 

Of Home Tooke, Lord Brougham, after praising him to the 
very echo, says : " but he was apt to think he had discovered 
a decisive argument, or solved a political, or a metaphysical, or 
an ethical problem, when he had only found the original mean- 
ing of a word." But herein Lord B. belies Home Tooke — who 
did not care three straws whether a word were used in its 
original meaning or not. He only required that every word 
should have an intelligible meaning of some sort — and he 
gave the original meaning of words only to show that all words 
had an intelligible meaning once, and must have an intelli- 
gible meaning now, or else cease to be words, and become 
mere brutish gabble. His grand doctrine is, that every word is 
a noun or name, and either the sign of some sensible object 
or else of other words, which other words are the signs or names 
of sensible objects. Even my Lord B. admits this to be 
Home Tooke's leading idea ; for he says of it : " the simple 
grandeur of this leading idea, which runs through the whole of 
Mr. Tooke' s system, at once recommends it to our acceptation." 



XIV PREFACE. 

Thus, in all discussions about Mind, Home Tooke would say : 
" the word Mind is the sign of other words, viz. remembered 
things — and these words are the collective sign of all the 
particular names of all those sensible objects which a man can 
remember— just as the words " pack of hounds" are the collective 
sign for ail the particular names of all the particular dogs in the 
pack. This is the original meaning of the word, and this is a 
meaning which I can clearly understand. Nevertheless, though 
this be the original meaning, I do not require you to use it with 
this meaning — only, whatever meaning you attach to it, let it be, 
like this, an intelligible one — that is to say, let its meaning be 
one or more sensible objects. Otherwise I cannot understand it 
— it degenerates into a mere senseless gabble, and all arguments 
in which the use of the word is involved become mere unintelli- 
gible noise." Thus Home Tooke would have reasoned. " For," 
says he, " that is not a word which is not the name of a thing." 
For even those words which are merely the signs of other words 
are still the names of things — for those other words, whether 
written or spoken, are still things cognizable by the senses. 

It was not that Home Tooke used the original meaning 
of words as arguments — but that he insisted upon all men 
giving to their words an intelligible meaning of some sort — that 
is, making them the the signs, directly or indirectly, of sensible 
objects — and then he used their inability to do so as an 
argument to prove that their arguments were mere sounds sig- 
nifying nothing. He did not resort to the meanings of words 
to solve any problem of his own whatever. He only used them 
to show, that his adversary's solution of any metaphysical, 
political, or ethical problem — or any solution but his own — was 
absurd. He drove his opponent from house to house until, if 
he did not choose to take up his quarters in his, Home Tooke's 
own house, he soon found himself without any quarters at all. 
His arguments were not for himself, but against his adversary. 
Thus if Kant were arguing with Home Tooke, the former would 
scarcely have opened his lips before the latter would cry out : 
"stop ! stop ! your words are unintelligible ! You are gibble-gab- 
bling ! A parrot is preaching ! Stop and make me understand 
the meaning of the words you are using apart from the 



PREFACE. XV 

words themselves. Otherwise your argument is to me "vox 
et prseterea nihil." And if Kant could not do this — which he 
certainly could not— then Home Tooke would have seated 
himself with a perfectly satisfied air, and whistled Lillibullero 
throughout all the rest of Kant's argument, as a thing perfectly 
unanswerable, because perfectly unintelligible. Home Tooke's 
argument was the reductio ad absurdum, viz. the absurdity of 
using words, i. e. sounds, for which a man can give no other 
meaning than so many other words, L e. so many other sounds. 

If this mode of argument were introduced into the House of 
Commons by such a man as Canning- — or into our conservative 
journals by any man of ordinary talent — I mean this manner of 
insisting that every man shall give an intelligible meaning for 
his words, i. e. for the sounds which he utters — what perfect 
mincemeat would it make of all the nonsense of a large party 
of transcendental improvers and reformers in that House ! 

How curious that men should mistake sounds for anything 
else but sounds ! 

He who sees nothing in Home Tooke but a search after the 
meanings of words, reads with one eye open and the other shut. 

Another object of Home Tooke, and a necessary one to the 
accomplishment of the structure which he desired to build — for 
" I know," says he, " for what building I am laying the foun- 
dation," p. 534, vol. i, 2nd edition, 1798 — was to account for 
the presence of abstract nouns (and some other words) in 
language. And this he did by showing how they came there, 
and what they no there. 

If words do not signify things, what in the world do they 
signify ? Ideas. But idea itself is but a word ! — and what I 
want to know is the thing which that word signifies. 

I have in the body of the work shown that the word idea 
is merely an additional name which we give to a thing which we 
have seen, in order to distinguish that thing from those which 
we have not seen. Thus I have in my mind several ideas of 
several horses — that is, I have in my mind several ideal horses — 
and I use these words ideas and ideal in connection with the 
word horses, in order to distinguish these horses which I have 
seen from those which I have not seen ; and of which, therefore, 
I have no idea whatever. 



XVI PREFACE. 

The Grseco-English phrase, " I have an idea of a horse," is 
exactly equivalent with the purely English phrase, " I have 
had a sight of a horse." 

I am told there is a something called a yam, which grows 
something like a potato, looks something like a pumpkin, and 
is eaten abroad as a substitute for bread. Now your Kantian 
transcendental mystifiers would say that, from all this, I have 
acquired an idea — or probably it would be a sort of an idea — of 
a yam. But I say that I am still without any idea of a yam 
whatever ; and the only ideas the word yam can excite in me are 
still only the ideas of a potato, a loaf of bread, and a pumpkin. 
I have only acquired a new name for an old idea. The pumpkin 
has become a yam as well as a pumpkin. But when I have seen 
a yam — when any yam has become to me a seen yam — then I 
shall thenceforward carry about me an ideal yam, or the idea of 
a yam. 

But Professor Stewart would tell you that, although I have 
not acquired any idea of a yam, I have acquired a notion of a 
yam. And this is true — for notion merely means knowing — and 
I do now know more about a yam than I did before — for I now 
know that I have been told that a yam is like a pumpkin — and 
this is all that I now know about a yam more than I knew 
before. 

In brief, this is Home Tooke's doctrine concerning words, 
viz., that all words (excepting those which are the immediate 
names of sensible objects) are the signs of other words— and that 
these other words are the signs of still other ivords — and so on, 
"in continued progression" (I quote his own words) until you 
get at last to some sensible objects other than words — which 
sensible objects constitute the meaning in nature of all the signs 
through which we have travelled in order to get at them. 

It is quite manifest that all words which do not point at 
sensible objects are "verba et voces et prasterea nihil." For 
that which is not a thing is clearly No-thing, i. e. nothing. 
The word nothing may, in every instance, have its place supplied 
by the words not-any -thing. I should be glad to ask the ghost 
of John Locke how he could realise any idea of not-any -thing ! ! 

I cannot here help mentioning an instance of the manner in 



PREFACE. XV11 

which words are constantly used without any significance what- 
ever. I take the example from Coleridge's "Aids to Reflection" 
— a work purporting " to direct the reader's attention to the 
value of the science of words, their use and abuse, and the 
incalculable advantages attached to the habit of using them 
appropriately, and with a distinct knowledge of their primary, 
derivative, and metaphorical senses." 

After this ! Mr. Coleridge says : " God is a circle, whose 
centre is everywhere, and circumference nowhere." 

Now it is self-evident that there can be neither circle nor 
centre without a circumference. For circle and circumference are 

j| two words meaning the same thing. The circle is the circum- 
ference, and the circumference is the circle. And the centre of 
a circle is a point which is equi-distant from every point of the 

i circumference. Without a circumference, therefore, there can 

I be neither centre nor circle. If such a use of words could 
prove anything at all, these of Mr. Coleridge would prove that 
there is no God. For, if he be a circle having a centre, but no 
circumference, he is an impossible existence. 

But if Mr. Coleridge meant this as an illustration by com- 
parison, then it is an illustration which throws no light — for 

i God cannot resemble an impossible existence, i. e. a nonentity 
— unless Mr. Coleridge considered God to be a nonentity also 
— which we know he did not. Therefore Mr. Coleridge's words 
are merely so many words arranged on paper according to 
syntactical rules, and the laws which govern language, but 
wholly destitute of significance. 

The truth is (and Mr. Coleridge's whole work is one continued 
instance of it) that we often work with words precisely as we do, 
says A. B. Johnson, with figures. You may sit down and fill a 
slate with figures, divided into separate little collections, and all 
duly arranged, multiplied, divided, subtracted, added— pro- 
ducing, at every step, certain regular results — according to the 
laws which govern numbers. But if these figures do not repre- 
sent some sensible objects — if there be not in rerum natura, any 
sensible objects which they can be made to represent — when you 
have filled your slate with figures, and little clusters of arith- 
metical processes, what information have you gained or commu- 



XVlll PREFACE. 

nicated ? Clearly none whatever. Thus men work with words 
according to the grammatic laws which govern words, precisely 
as we may work with figures according to the arithmetic laws 
which govern numhers. And each individual arithmetic process, 
of several of which the whole arithmetic process is made up, 
resembles each individual sentence, of a great number of which 
the whole verbal process, i. e. the whole argument of a book, is 
composed. But if there be in the universe no sensible objects to 
which either the figures or the words can be referred — then both 
the words and the figures are insignificant. 

This is precisely what we are daily in the habit of doing, not 
in the language of figures, but in the language of words. 

Every word, like every figure, is an unintelligible and useless 
sign, unless it (not be, but) can be referred to some sensible 
object, whenever an explanation of its meaning is required. 

I have given the words unless or dismiss as an instance of the 
manner in which this is done. 

Lord Brougham admits unequivocally, and admires exceed- 
ingly, Home Tooke's system of language, which teaches that 
every word in every language is the sign of one or more sensible 
objects, and that there is no such thing as abstraction. And the 
Rev. E. Bushby declares that " it is now generally admitted that 
the mind has no such power." And yet in spite of this his own 
unequivocal admission, my Lord Brougham labors to prove that 
the mind itself is a pure abstraction ! ! What can he mean ? 
There can be no alternative between abstraction and no-abstrac- 
tion ! And if no-abstraction, then there cannot be that abstrac- 
tion which Lord B. calls mind ! Nor can there be any of those 
other abstractions called justice, understanding, right, wrong, 
intellect, honor, thinking principle, &c. &c. If Lord B. admit 
the existence of an abstraction called Mind, then he denies 
Home Tooke's doctrine of no-abstraction. And if he admit the 
doctrine of no-abstraction, then he, by that admission, denies 
the existence of that abstraction called Mind — and all other 
abstractions whatever. There cannot be a little abstraction here 
and a little abstraction there, and yet no abstraction any- 
where I ! 

proofs is (as he himself calls it) a very 



PREFACE, XIX 

remarkable one. He says, whenever a man uses the personal 
pronouns I, we, us, &c, he gives a proof that he is referring to 
something independent of his material self. When my Lord 
Brougham was a fine intelligent boy at school, as I am sure he 
was, he knew very well that a pronoun is a noun or name put 
instead of another noun or name. And that when he said 
(speaking of a task which he had learned) " I know my task/' he 
meant, by the words I and my, precisely what he would have 
meant had he said, "Henry Brougham knows Henry Brougham's 
task" — the pronouns I" and my standing severally for the two 
words Henry Brougham — and these two words standing in their 
turn for that intelligent little animal known by that name. 

The use of these personal pronouns is a key to the whole secret 
of language. For all those troublesome words which have so 
bothered the world are nothing but pronouns — that is, single 
nouns or names used instead of other nouns or names, for the sake 
of convenience and despatch. When my Lord Brougham uses 
the pronoun I, if any one were to ask him what "V means, he 
would say: " it means Henry Brougham." But if any one ask him 
what the words " Henry Brougham" mean, no words can tell — 
he can only convey their meaning by pointing to his own person 
— by showing himself to the inquirer, and thus causing his per- 
son to reveal itself to the senses of the other. And it is pre- 
cisely the same with these abstract nouns. 

Only conceive how troublesome it would be, if, in talking, a 
man were obliged to use his own name at full length, every time 
he wished to refer to himself. The little short pronoun "I" 
saves him all this time and trouble. Suppose Lord Brougham 
wanted to say: "I went to my desk and took out my pen-knife 
and mended my pen." If it were not for these pronouns he must 
say. : " Lord Brougham went to Lord Brougham's desk and 
took out Lord Brougham's pen-knife and mended Lord 
Brougham's pen." 

If it were not for those pronouns called abstract nouns, this 
difficulty and trouble and consumption of time would be magni- 
fied ten-thousand-fold. No one can help seeing this. 

Mind signifies knowledge. And knowledge is the collective 
term for all those sensible objects which, under various circum- 

b 



XX PREFACE. 

stances in various kinds of combination, some in motion, some 
at rest, &c. &c, have at various times revealed themselves to 
the human senses— whose forms have been gotten, and not 
forgotten, by the senses. And all those actions said to be 
performed by us or by our minds, such as hoping, fearing, 
willing, thinking, (except that part of the operation of thinking 
which consists of talking to ourselves) remembering, &c. &c. — 
are all of them actions performed, not by us or by our minds, 
but by things upon us. They are the effects of things upon us 
— revelations of the influences of things upon us — as the magnet 
reveals to the steel its influence upon the steel. And those 
phrases, such as, " I hope, I will, I remember, I wish, I love," 
&c. &c, are merely modes of speech, first adopted for con- 
venience and despatch, and now erroneously sought to be 
accounted for by a false reasoning on the nature of man, and 
his relation to external things. 

The true nature, cause, and purpose of this mode of speech, as 
well as of the false reasonings which have arisen out of it, 
become manifest in the phrases, ' I see, 5 ( I hear/ e I taste/ when 
the action pointed at is clearly an operation performed by things 
upon us. But if possible, it is still more manifest in such 
phrases as : i how would boiled beef eat with melted butter for 
sauce V 'how does that horse ride?' f he rides very well on 
the snaffle, but very ill on the curb.' We do not mean either 
that the boiled beef performs the operation of eating, or the 
horse that of riding. 

Some overwise critic may call this the language of the kitchen 
and stable. So much the better, if it be. It is to the uneducated 
that we must look, if we would discover the true nature of 
language. 

Man can perform no operations or actions but by means of 
his muscular organs. In everything else he is passive. 

Let any one look through Bagster's English Hexapla, and he 
will be amused to see how the word mind has been gradually 
perverted, through the several versions of the scripture, from its 
original sense of knowledge, until at last it has been brought 
to signify a mere abstraction — that is, nothing at all. 



preface. xxi 

wiclif's version (1380.) 
u For whi who knewe the witte of the Lord ?" — Rom. xi. 34. 

AUTHORISED version (1611.) 
" For who hath knowen the mind of the Lord ?" 

GREEK. 

«Tfc yap syv M NOTN Kvplov." 

WICLIF. 

u But the wittes of hem ben astonyed." — 2 Cor. iii. 14. 

RHEIMS VERSION (1582.) 

"But their senses were dulled." 

AUTHORISED. 

" But their minds were blinded." 

GREEK. 

d AAA' kvcopwfy roc NOHMATA avrav:'* 

WICLIF. 

" Veynli bolned with wit of his fleisch."— Coloss. ii, 18. 

RHEIMS. 

" In vaine puffed up by the sense of his flesh." 

AUTHORISED. 

" Vainly puffed up by his fleshly mind." 

GREEK. 
a Eijcrj <pvo"iov(j,svo§ vtto rov N002 t% (ra.pxb$ avTQvJ'f 

WICLIF. 

" God bi took hem in to a reprevable witte." — Rom. i. 28. 

RHEIMS. 

Ci God delivered them up to a reprobate sense." J 

AUTHORISED. 

" God gave them over to a reprobate mind." 

* " Td NOHMATA avr&v" — their THOUGHTS. 

f " Ytto rov NOOS rtjg aapicbg avrov" — " by mind of his flesh !" Is 
this intelligible ? Surely, in order to make it intelligible, it must be 
rendered "by the knowledge of his body" — that is, obtained by his bodily 
senses. 

% What can sense mean if not knowledge ? 



XX11 PREFACE. 

RHEIMS. 

" And they see him sitting clothed and wel in his wittes."— 
Mark v. 15. 

AUTHORISED. 

" And see him sitting clothed and in his right mind." 
To be in one's "wittes" or "mind" is to have a correct 
knowledge of the things and circumstances wherewith one is 
surrounded. I need hardly say that witte, at the time when 
Wiclif wrote, signified (as it properly does now) knowledge ; 
thus, 

WICLIF. 

"And whidir I go ye witen; and ye witen the wey." — 
John xiv. 4. 

AUTHORISED. 

" And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know/* 

WICLIF. 

" Thomas seith to hym : Lord, we witen not whidir thou 
goist, and how moun (must) we wite the weie." — John xiv. 5. 

AUTHORISED. 

" Thomas saith unto him : Lord, we know not whither thou 
goest, and how can we know the way V 

WICLIF. 

" If the world hatith you, wite ye that it hadde me in hate 
rather thanne you." — John xv. 18. 

AUTHORISED. 

" If the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it 
hated you." 

I have somewhere said that no one entertained a more con- 
temptuous opinion of grammar and grammarians than Home 
Tooke. If any one should think fit to quote the following 
passage from the " Diversions of Purley" in contravention of my 
assertion : " I think grammar difficult, but I am very far from 
looking upon it as foolish ; indeed so far, that I consider it as 
absolutely necessary in the search after philosophical truth ?" — 
I desire that he will also quote and place in juxta-position with 
it the following, which occurs two or three pages further on : 



PREFACE. XX111 

"I acknowledge philosophical grammar (to which only my 
suspected compliment was intended) to be a most necessary step 
towards wisdom and true knowledge." Philosophical grammar 
is removed from that which is usually understood by grammar, 
exactly as far as sense is removed from nonsense — and as far 
as the labors of grammarians are removed from the labors of 
Home Tooke. 

It may be alleged against me that Home Tooke himself did 
acknowledge what he called the "rights of man," viz. " whatever 
it is ordered (by nature) that he shall have." But he did not 
state wherein he conceived those rights to consist. And I 
might shelter myself behind the omission if I chose. But I do 
not so chose. I will admit that he seems to imply the existence 
of certain popular rights. Home Tooke was a man of warm 
and even violent political feeling. And here the keen eye of his 
sober judgment was blinded by the smoke which issued from 
the political fire that burned within him. He hung a sneer 
upon the nose of his colloquist against old Johnson's "sacred, 
indefeasible, inherent, hereditary, rights of monarchs" — not 
perceiving that that sneer might as justly have been turned 
against his own popular rights. 

But should such an allegation be made against me it would be 
a very inane one. For I have no concern with Home Tooke, 
or with Home Tooke' s feelings, or opinions. I am only con- 
cerned with Home Tooke' s book, and the reasoning therein 
contained. And although my admiration of his talents stops, 
perhaps, but one step short of idolatry, yet not on the mere 
opinion even of Home Tooke will I pin my faith. I do not, like 
Dr. Beattie with regard to John Locke, trouble myself a moment 
about what an author means — I only concern myself with what 
his writings prove. To the readers of Euclid's Elements of 
Mathematics, what does it signify what Euclid meant ? The 
only question is : " what does Euclid's reasoning prove ?" 

But I also admit certain " rights of man" — which words I 
also define to signify "whatever it is ordered (by nature) that 
he shall have." Here Home Tooke stops, while I proceed 
a step farther, and state wherein these rights (or this order) 
consist, viz. in the order or command of nature that he shall 



XXIV PREFACE. 

have all that he can get with the least injury to his self-love. 
But as this law of nature is universal, (for nature knows nothing 
about poor men and rich men, king and people) it is clear that 
the same law which orders the governed to get and keep all they 
can, fyc., also orders their governors to get and keep all they 
can, fyc. I think I never remember to have read or heard (as 
committed by men of education and talent) so curious and 
extraordinary a blunder as that which supposes that nature has 
laid down certain laws for particular classes of men — laws for 
that class called "the people/' and laws for that other class 
called kings, statesmen, or ministers. Nature legislates for 
man, not for classes of men. Whatever law, right, or order she 
has imposed upon the prince, she has also imposed upon the 
people — and whatever on the people, also on the prince. And 
there can be, therefore, no rights of the people which are not 
also equally the rights of all those men who are not embraced 
within the meaning of the word "people." But the only laws 
which nature has instituted for the guidance and conduct of the 
" people" are the laws of self-love and parental affection. 
Therefore self-love and parental affection are also the only 
laws which govern the conduct of kings, ministers and statesmen. 
And these laws are universal, and common to all animals — to 
mite, maggot, mammoth, and man. 

But it may be said that all this depends upon the assumption 
that the word right, and the words law, order, &c. are equivalent 
terms. It does so. This is to me the only intelligible meaning 
of the word right which I can find. But if you can find and 
show me another intelligible meaning, I will hold your objection 
to be sound. But if you cannot — and if you be a reasonable 
man — that reason will compel you to adopt my sense of the 
word. Why? The answer is plain enough — "because it is 
the only intelligible meaning of which the word is susceptible." 
And herein you have a specimen of Home Tooke's mode of 
argument. Here are, said he, certain words ; and here are 
certain intelligible meanings which were originally attached to 
them. You say these words have lost their old meanings, and 
acquired new ones. Very well — make their meanings cognizable 
and intelligible to me — only let me know what they are — then I 



PREFACE. XXV 

with you will adopt the new meanings. But if you cannot do 
this — if you cannot communicate their meanings either to me or 
to anybody else — if you have nothing to give me but words, 
which are nothing but sounds — then you with me must rest 
content with the old meanings, or else continue to use words 
which are confessedly unintelligible. 

My reasoning depends upon the intelligible use of such words 
as right, law, ought, duty, &c. &c. — precisely as all mathematical 
reasoning whatever depends, and must depend, upon an intelli- 
gible use of such words as line, sine, tangent, angle, centre, arc, 
square, &c. If these words were used in an arbitrary or unintelli- 
gible sense, the whole science of mathematics would instantly be 
thrown into the same confusion as that which characterizes 
metaphysics and moral philosophy. 

There wants but an intelligible use of all words to make 
these latter sciences as unerring as the mathematical. So true is 
that aphorism of Home Tooke that " all sciences whatever must 
finally centre in the science of words/' Who, therefore, shall 
presume to say that a treatise concerning the nature of words 
is a treatise 'wrap ovou (thiols ? Who shall contend that the philo- 
sophy of words has nothing to do with the philosophy of things. 

To cut, to carve, to chisel, to chop, &c, are all only so many 
different names given to one sensible operation — that of cutting. 
Cut is its general name, let the circumstances under which the 
operation is performed be what they may. The others are so 
many particular names given to the same operation when per- 
formed under particular circumstances. In like manner, to 
speak, to dedicate, to preach, to pray, to consecrate, to lecture, 
to call, to name, to pronounce sentence, to judge, and many 
others are only so many different names given to one and the 
same sensible operation — that of speaking. Speak is the general 
name — all the others are so many particular names given to the 
same sensible operation when performed under particular cir- 
cumstances. To judge is an English form given to the Latin 
word ju-dicare, i. e. jus-dicare,* i. e. to speak the law. Judge 

* I suppose no one will doubt that dicere, to speak, and dicare, to conse- 
crate, to vow, to promise, (all of them ceremonies performed by words) are one 
and the same word. 



XXVI PREFACE. 

(the noun) is the Latin word ju-dex, ju-dix, ju-dics, ju-dic-ans, 
jus-dicans, i. e. speaking the law, or one who speaks the law. 
The English phrase to judge, therefore, signifies to speak — 
under those particular circumstances under which a judge speaks. 
In a word, to do what the judge does. Judgment, therefore, 
signifies speech — not generally — but that particular speech which 
is spoken by a judge in his judicial character. For instance, 
here is a man arraigned for a supposed crime. His fate depends, 
after certain ceremonies, examinations, &c. upon a particular 
speech to be spoken by the judge. And to speak this speech is 
to pronounce judgment, and to pronounce judgment is to speak 
this speech. The Anglo-Saxon verb for to judge was dem-an — 
that is, to do what the Dema did — Dema being the Anglo-Saxon 
for a judge — that is, to speak the law, to pronounce sentence, 
judgment, or doom. And doom was the Anglo-Saxon word for 
judgment — and, being the past participle of deman, to speak- 
what-the-judge-speaks, signifies that which was spoken by the 
judge — or the speech of the judge. 

Who does not see, in all this, a clear and intelligible refutation 
of all the nonsense and stuff that has been, for ages, said, sung, 
and written, about that pretended operation of the mind called 
judging? The jury are thinged or influenced by the words 
of the witnesses — and the judge is thinged or influenced by 
the written law which he has read and remembers — and the 
verdict, i. e, true-speech of the jury, and the judgment, i. e. 
doom or speech of the judge, are the result of these influences 
of words and things upon them. And the whole process is a 
process of influences — or effects of words and things — upon the 
men constituting the judge and jury — in other words, a process 
of reasoning, i. e. thinging or being thinged — a process of 
thinking (i. e. of speaking) and of being thinged — (i. e. 
spoken to, or influenced) by things — a process of JUDGE-ing, 
i. e. of judge-acting, i. e. of doing what the judge does. Both 
judge and jury are purely passive till they speak. 

I am told that Dr. Pritchard, in his Physical History of Man, 
a work which I have not read, has declared that civilized men 
are stronger and more healthy than barbarians. I can hardly 
think that Dr. Pritchard has made such a declaration. It must 



PREFACE. XXVH 

be remembered, however, that in drawing a comparison between 
the civilized and uncivilized, the comparison must always be 
made between men of the same race and climate — for instance, 
between cultivated Germans, and Germans before they became 
cultivated — and not between Germans and Hottentots. And it 
must also be made between a whole people, and a whole people, 
and not between particular individuals. There may be stronger 
men to be found in civilized communities, possibly, than in any 
uncivilized community, but in what part of a civilized commu- 
nity shall we find these strong men ? Shall we find them 
chiefly in populous cities and manufacturing towns ? Shall we 
find them among silk-weavers, and cotton-spinners ? Shall we 
find them in banking-houses, and merchants' counting-houses ? 
Behind the counters of linen-drapers and silk-mercers ? Shall 
we find them on the tailor's shop-board ? Shall we find them 
among law students, and divinity students, and medical students ? 
and lawyers, and divines, and physicians ? No ! We shall 
find them among farmers' labourers, and brewers' draymen — 
that is to say, among those classes of a cultivated community 
which are the least cultivated ! 

It has been one object of my work to show that there is less 
difference between the animal man and the inferior animals, 
than is generally supposed. This, with regard to the best mode 
of legislating for his welfare, is an important truth. There are 
many useful lessons to be learned in human legislation from a 
contemplation of the manner in which nature legislates for 
brutes. " Simia quam similis, turpissima bestia, nobis !" 

I said I would mention an extremely short and royal road to 
the acquirement of the dead languages. My son has since put 
into my hands a book, from which I learn that the plan I had in 
contemplation has been already adopted by a Mr. Hall for many 
years with extraordinary success. 

To persons previously acquainted with English grammar, 
Mr. Hall has found three months sufficient to communicate 
a " complete knowledge of the Latin language." 

" Mr. Hall was anxious to introduce it (his system of teaching) 
to the public in such a manner as satisfactorily to prove its 
efficacy. With this view he resolved to ascertain the shortest 



XXVlll PREFACE. 

possible space of time in which an adult, by devoting his entire 
time and attention, could acquire the rudiments of the grammar, 
and be able to undergo a public examination in translating, 
parsing, and scanning the whole of the first book of Virgil's 
JEneid. This trial he commenced with a gentleman who was 
well versed in English grammar, but not acquainted in the 
slightest degree with Latin ; and such is the superiority which 
can be gained, in acquiring language, by cultivating and directing 
aright the reasoning powers, instead of relying on the memory 
alone, that at the expiration of only seven days, he found his 
pupil qualified to meet the proposed examination," 

The above are extracts from the preface to Mr. Hall's work, 
entitled, " The Principal Roots of the Latin Language." John 
Taylor, 13, Waterloo Place, Pall-Mail ; and J. A. Hessey, 93, 
Fleet Street, 1825. 

There is an immense number of familiar English words, 
which are, in fact, Latin words with only a slight alteration in 
the termination. So that a man who understands well the 
English language — that is, the meaning of English words, 
does, in fact, understand the meaning of a vast number of 
Latin words without knowing it. And the English form and 
Latin form, and pronunciation, are, for the most part, so much 
alike, that having once seen them in juxtaposition, it is almost 
impossible to remember the one without remembering the other. 
Thus having seen in juxtaposition, the following words : 
Latin : qualitas — qusestio — imaginatio — -figura, 
English : quality- — question — imagination — figure, 
and multitudes of others, who can fail to remember both the 
Latin for the English and the English for the Latin? And 
it is the acquirement of the meanings of words which constitute 
the great difficulty in acquiring any language. A man who 
knows the root-meaning of every word in a dead language, would 
often be able to spell out the meaning of an author merely by 
the force of suggestion, even without knowing anything of the 
grammatical construction of that language, provided he were 
well acquainted with the grammatical construction of his own, 
and with the philosophical nature of language and grammar 
generally. 



PREFACE. XXIX 

Having learned the meanings of the words, and to read a 
little, a very short time attentively given to the grammar will 
make him as intimately acquainted with the construction of a 
dead language as he is with his own. And this is the natural 
order in which the languages of all countries are acquired by 
their native infants. 

This plan of the juxtaposition of Latin words with the same 
words anglicised is that adopted by Mr. Hall. And whoever 
will take the trouble to learn thoroughly the inflections of the 
Latin nouns, adjectives, pronouns, and verbs, from a Valpy's or 
an Eton grammar, and then proceed systematically with Mr. 
Hall's work, adhering rigidly to his rules as given in the 
Introduction to the Roots, under the head of "How to use the 
Book," which should be carefully read several times over, I am 
quite certain he cannot fail to acquire a very competent and 
sufficient knowledge of the Latin language in three or four 
months, if he be already well acquainted with English grammar. 

But before he begins to learn the roots, I would advise him to 
learn the meanings of the prepositions as given at pp. 132-3, 
that he may recognise them when he sees them in composition 
with other words, and not be led to suppose he sees a different 
word when he only sees the same word with a preposition pre- 
fixed to it. 

The addition of a preposition can never change the meaning of 
a root. 

Having acquired all Mr. Hall's roots in the order and manner 
directed in the introduction, and afterwards the derivatives, and 
having observed the force which certain prepositions have when 
prefixed to other words, the student will not only be in possession 
of the meaning of all the roots, but also of all words com- 
pounded of those roots and prepositional prefixes. 

Before, however, he begins his study, I would strongly recom- 
mend him to devote a month to the study of Home Tooke's 
" Diversions of Purley," in order to acquire a clear notion of the 
philosophy and nature of grammar generally, and to accustom 
himself to expect, look for, and see, a fixed and radical meaning 
in every word, and to distinguish this from all its figurative or 
metaphorical meanings. Knowing the root-meaning of any 



XXX PREFACE. 

word, the metaphorical meanings will flow as necessary conse- 
quences, since all the metaphorical meanings are founded on, 
and must have a connexion, and bear a comparison, in some way 
or other, with the root-meaning. This connexion generally, 
though not quite always, as in the case of sycophant, which 
means a fig-seller — will be immediately perceived. 

Thus in the word reflection, he will see that it is a Latin 
word, whose root-meaning is a bending backwards, as an ozier 
twig may be made to do, and that its ordinary metaphorical use 
has arisen from the absurd notion, that the mind during the act 
of thinking, bends back upon itself, after the manner of an 
ozier twig, and " takes a view of its own operations." Though 
in what part of the twig these operations are carried on, or at 
which end of the twig the eyes are situated, by means of which 
it "takes a view," deponent sayeth not. 

It has been observed by a few, that the subjects treated in this 
work are, or ought to be, foreign to the studies of a medical 
man. This is a great error. It is intimately connected with 
the study of all the sciences. " All science," says Home Tooke, 
"must ultimately resolve itself into the science of words." 
Surely nothing can be more necessary to the successful cultiva- 
tion of any science, than that the student should habituate 
himself to distinguish clearly between words and things — to 
look through and beyond the watery waste of words, and fix his 
gaze on the things which lie at the bottom ! That he should 
habituate himself so to think, that he may never be deceived 
into the error of mistaking a mere knowledge of words for a 
knowledge of things. A. B. Johnson has remarked that the 
science of medicine, in particular, has suffered much for want of 
a due attention to the distinction between words and things. 
And so it has. 

" The term paraplegia is applied to the paralytic condition of 
the lower half of the body."— Dr. Gregory. 

"Dr. Baillie has seen paraplegia accompanied by giddiness, 
drowsiness, impaired vision, paralytic dropping of an eyelid, 
defect of the memory, loss of mental energy, and lastly numbness 
or weakness of one or both of the upper extremities." — 

Dr. Gregory. 



PREFACE. XXXI 

Why then paraplegia does not consist in a paralytic condition 
of the "lower half" of the body — and he who administers his 
remedies with this view is evidently endeavouring to cure a word, 
instead of curing a disease ! 

Formerly medicines were prescribed less for the disease than 
for the name of the disease. Having personified disease into some 
mysterious living being, as we have Mind, they prescribed medi- 
cine, as it were with a view of killing that being by poison ! That 
which was called a dose of medicine to the patient, was thought 
to be a dose of poison to the disease. 

Perpetually engaged from ten o' clock in the morning till nine 
at night, with only the interval of two or three hours in the 
middle of the day, in the duties of a laborious profession, I have 
written this work a scrap now, and a scrap then — a scrap in the 
morning, a scrap at noon, and a scrap at midnight — seldom 
more, and sometimes less, than a sheet at a time being sent off 
to be printed in the country as soon as written — so that I have 
scarcely ever had time to read over what I had once written, 
before it was sent to press. 

It must necessarily happen, therefore, that the work abounds 
with verbal inaccuracies, faults of style, repetitions, and such-like 
errors of diction. No critic need remind me of these — first, 
because I am as well aware of them as he can be — and secondly, 
because they can be of no consequence to the main argument. 
With regard to the arguments themselves, it may, I know, often 
be said of me, " dum clarus esse laborat, obscurus fit." It may 
even have happened that some of the lesser arguments and illus- 
trations may, for want of time to examine them with sufficient 
closeness, be found to be no arguments or illustrations at all. Bat 
all this makes nothing against my cause — it only proves that the 
pleading of it has fallen into the hands of a bungling advocate. 

It must also be remembered that he who argues against the 
doctrine of no- abstraction, does not argue merely against me and 
my work, but against Home Tooke and the Diversions of Purley. 

I have done nothing more than insist upon the doctrines 
therein contained, and have only carried them out to their legiti- 
mate conclusions, in their application to metaphysics, morality, 
and politics. And that criticism can only be worth attention 



XXX11 PREFACE. 

which shall be directed to prove that these conclusions do not 
legitimately flow from Home Tooke's doctrine of no-abstraction. 

The sensible reader will not quarrel with a good argument, 
either because it is awkwardly put, or because it is placed side 
by side with a bad one. 

If, in my conversation, I have sometimes spoken in too loud a 
voice, I can only say, with Mirabeau : " Si jai dit la veriie, 
pourquoi ma vehemence en Fexprimant, diminueroit-elle de son 
prix ?" 

The doctrines herein inculcated assume to be founded on truth 
and reason only, and cannot therefore be opposed by any mere 
opinion or authority. They are, I know, many of them directly 
opposed to public opinion — and will, therefore, doubtless be 
either scouted, or otherwise roughly handled, by those who wor- 
ship at that altar, and who never condescend to kneel at that of 
common sense. But I console myself with the reflection, that 
this has been the fate of nearly all, or all of the now great 
universally acknowledged truths — when first promulgated. I 
have, however, neither a hope nor a wish to convince others by 
my arguments. I question whether any man was ever convinced, 
by the arguments of another. All that a reasoner can do is to 
set his readers a-thinking in the right direction. He gives 
them a clue — and then they either dress up his arguments in 
their own language, and please themselves with believing them 
to be their own — or else do really discover new arguments of 
their own on the same side by which they are convinced. 

And there is a reason in nature for this. For the same natural 
law, which makes it offensive to a man to be beaten with a stick, 
makes it also offensive to be beaten with an argument. There is 
a distinction but no difference. 

On this account it was that I set out with promising merely 
to offer food for thought. 

I proffer a key wherewith men may, if they please, readily 
unlock the treasury of all human philosophy — if they will only 
take care to put the right end of the key into the key-hole. 

But this key was not wrought and fashioned by me, but by 
Home Tooke. I found it in the dust-hole, neglected and 
covered with rust, and in danger of being entirely forgotten. I 



PREFACE. XXX111 

have brightened it with sand-paper, and filed up its wards anew, 
and endeavoured to make it play somewhat more easily in the 
I lock. 

I cannot do better, I think, than conclude this preface with an 
| extract from A. B. Johnson. 

"What constitutes personal identity ? What enables you to 

j know that you are the individual who, thirty years ago, arrived 

i in this city ? The usual answer to this question would be words, 

j but the true answer is independent of all words. It is simply 

I what you discover it to be. A dumb mute possesses on this 

I subject all the knowledge which you possess," (except its name) 

" and usually in much greater clearness and purity than you 

possess it ; for with you, the answer is probably so confounded 

with words that the phenomena of nature (which constitute the 

real answer) are but little regarded. 

" What are thoughts ? What is memory ? What is an 
idea ? What are conscience and consciousness ? They may 
severally answer : I am what I am. No answer is so good as this, 
because none is so little likely to mislead the inquirer. Would 
we know further what they are, we must resort to our experi- 
ence, and in its mute revelation alone can we receive the answer. 
What is lightning ? Should the clouds exhibit to me a flash, 
it would constitute the best answer that the question is suscep- 
tible of. Precisely thus, when I ask, what is memory? Should 
the recollection occur to me of a flash of lightning, that recol- 
lection would constitute the best answer which the question about 
memory is susceptible of. 

"To experience the recollection of a flash of lightning will 
tell you only what the word memory names. You may say that 
you wish to know how memory is caused, and what constitutes 
its nature. Recur, then, again, to your consciousness. Experi- 
ence all which you can in relation to memory, and receive the 
experience as the only answer which the questions admit. If 
experience will not answer the question, language cannot; for 
language possesses no signification in the premises, except what 
it derives from its reference to your experience. 

"We can answer every question which inquires after anything 
that we can experience, either by our senses or our conscious- 



XXXIV PREFACE. 

ness ; but a question which inquires after none of these is an 
inquiry after nothing. How would memory look if we could see 
it ? How would it feel, taste, smell, or sound ? Does it die, or 
continue to live in the soul after the death of the body ? If it 
is a property of the soul, why does it decay in old men ? If it is 
a property of matter, is it confined to a particular piece ? Does 
it possess gender and number ? We may form as many such 
questions as we can form syntactical sentences; but the questions 
are like a numerical sum whose figures refer to nothing. The 
figures may be multiplied, divided, added, and subtracted, 
according to the rules which figures obey ; but if the figures 
possess no ulterior reference, their product will possess no 
ulterior signification. Our questions also may be subjected to 
all the rules of logic that are applicable to the words ; but so 
long as the words possess no ulterior reference, the answers 
which may be elaborated from them will possess no ulterior 
signification." 

I have just received from my publisher, an extract from an 
article entitled, <c Grammar and Grammarians," published in the 
October number of the Gentleman's Magazine for 1840. I 
regret that my attention was not called to this article sooner, as, 
from the tenor of the extract before me, I am convinced that its 
author's view of language is in unison with my own, and that I 
might have derived from a perusal of the entire article, at an 
earlier period, many useful suggestions. "A learned language," 
most truly observes the acute writer, " is the medium commonly 
resorted to when men endeavour to convey to others (clearly as 
they hope) those obscure notions which themselves had mistaken 
for the illuminations of wisdom." As an instance of the truth 
of this, let any one translate into pure English the following 
sentences from Bushby's Essay on the Human Mind — -rejecting 
all such words as are strictly Latin or Greek, and translating 
them literally into such purely English words as those foreign 
words directly and unmetaphorically represent. The exercise 
will infallibly prove to him the effect which the introduction of 
foreign words into our language has had in mystifying philo- 
sophy : "the mind acquires* ideas* first by sensation* Our 
senses* being acted* upon by external* objects* convey* ideas* 



PREFACE. XXXV 

1 of those objects* to the mind. Thus by sensation* we acquire* 
!the ideas* of solidity,* figure,* colours,* sounds,* and other 
| qualities* of matter.* 

Secondly,* the mind acquires* ideas* by reflexion.* Re- 
flexion* is the notice* which the mind takes of its own operations,* 
j such as of thinking, doubting,* believing, reasoning,* knowing, 
willing. The mind being conscious* of these operations,* and 
reflecting* on them is furnished by them with ideas* which 
could not be obtained* from external* objects.* 

There are other ideas* (such as those of existence,* personal* 

identity,* time*, number*) which are not the immediate* objects* 

either of sensation* or reflexion :* though the senses* may 

furnish the first occasions* on which they occur* to the mind." 

All the words with stars over them are Latin or Greek." 

The author's observations on the word thing clearly show that, 

J although the true meaning of that word had not occurred to him, 

his acute judgment made him perceive all the mystery and unin- 

i telligibility of many of its ordinary applications. 

"The Latin res," says this clever writer, "has the same 
meaning as the English thing ; from the Latin has been formed 
(who can tell when ?) the adjective realis — a word at which 

Cicero could not have been less shocked than Professor Stewart 

l 

at the abomination thing-ed. But suppose that the introducers of 
the real philosophy (as it is called) into this country had pre- 
sented it under genuine English names ; our ancestors would 
have been required to stomach a thing-al philosophy — to imbibe 
the doctrine of thing -alists, relative to the thing-ality of things. 
Our docility revolts at a theory inculcated in such a nomencla- 
ture as this ; and yet Locke, the most rational of modern 
philosophers, can talk, and talk with considerable complacency, 
of the reality of things — realitas rerum." 

And again : " Tooke has wounded the sensitive nerves of 
certain purists in taste by asserting that "res," a thing, gives us 
"reor" I am thinged; " vereor," I am strongly thinged; adding 
an admonition to "remember that where we now say I think, 
the ancient expression was methinketh, that is, mething-eth, it 
thing-eth me." Thing is, in the Anglo-Saxon, thine, and such 
is still the vulgar pronunciation of the word." 



XXXVI PREFACE. 

He has, however, attributed to Home Tooke that which does 
not belong to him. The word thine is nowhere mentioned in the 
Diversions of Purley — at least not in my edition (2nd edition, 
4to, 1798). In Bosworth's Anglo-Saxon Lexicon, however, the 
word is given ; and I believe I may myself claim the credit of 
having first reconciled the meanings of thing, thine, and think, 
(all one word) with common sense. 

I have been compelled from circumstances to introduce much 
matter into the preface which ought to have been inserted in the 
body of the last number of the work ; and which will lose much 
of its force and application unless it be read subsequently to the 
perusal of the entire work — or at least so much of it as relates 
to language. 

I have somewhere said that man can perform no operations 
but by means of his muscular organs. And even in the per- 
formance of these operations, the term "active" can only be 
applied to him in the same sense in which it is applied to a 
steam-engine or a ship under sail. Man is purely passive. He 
is an electro-nervous pile* attached to a locomotive machine, the 
locomotive machine being set in action by the agency (sui 
generis) of the nervous pile, the pile itself being excited to 
activity by the agency (sui generis) of things external to itself — 
in the midst of which it is placed — and with some of which (viz. 
the other component parts of the animal machine) it is in con- 
nection and contact. 

I had argued this subject somewhat at length, with a view to 

* " If the brain be an electric pile, constantly in action, it may be conceived 
to discharge itself at regular intervals, when the tension of the electricity 
developed reaches a point along the nerves which communicate with the 
heart, and thus to excite the pulsations of that organ. This idea is forcibly 
suggested by a view of that elegant apparatus, the dry pile of Deluc ; in which 
the successive accumulations of electricity are carried off by a suspended ball, 
which is kept by the discharges in a state of regular pulsation for any length of 
time. We have witnessed the action of such a pile maintained in this way for whole 
years in the study of the above-named eminent philosopher. The same idea of 
the cause of the pulsation of the heart appears to have occurred to Dr. Arnott; 
and is mentioned in his useful and excellent work on Physics, to which, how- 
ever, we are not indebted for the suggestion, it having occurred to us inde- 
pendently many years ago."— Note to page 343 of Herschel's Discourse on the 
Study of Natural Philosophy. 



PREFACE. XXXV11 

show that the so-called voluntary actions may be readily accounted 
for, in every conceivable instance, by the doctrine of counteracting 
causes or impressions, and without the necessity of supposing the 
existence of any such incomprehensible and impossible abstrac- 
tion as that called will. 

If I hear a mad bull roaring behind me, that noise impels me 
forward. But if I see another mad bull approaching in my line 
of flight, this second cause counteracts the former — and these 
two causes combine to form a third, which impels me in a new 
line, at right angles with the former, that being the direction in 
which I shall keep at the greatest distance from both dangers, if 
I be on an open plain. But if I see a house, that becomes a 
new attractive cause, and my line of flight will diverge towards 
the house. It must not be forgotten, however, that, all this 
time, I am silently talking to myself, and thus causing things to 
thing me over again — in other words, I am devising means of 
escape — and my words, and the things which my words suggest 
to me, become also causes which will influence my line of flight. 

Memory or remembered things, therefore, are amongst the 
causes which set the locomotive machine in motion, as well as 
present things. 

I assert most positively that our muscles can remember. And 
this is what we really mean when we speak of acting from habit, 
or, mechanically. 

If a man be walking in a crowded street, however intently he 
may be thinking and talking to himself, yet his voluntary mus- 
cles (as they are called) will move him (mechanically, as we say) 
this way and that, in order to avoid running against people. 
Deeply intent on his own thoughts, it is impossible to conceive 
that his will (if there were such a thing) should have leisure to 
direct both his thoughts, and his lips, and his legs, and his 
arms, and his tongue, all at the same moment of time I 

There is a game at which children often play. One takes hold 
of one end of a pocket-handkerchief, and the other of the 
other. Then one says : " when I say, hold fast, leave go — and 
when I say, leave go, hold fast — leave go ! !" On the utter- 
ance of these last words the child ought and desires, or wills, to 
" hold fast." Yet in nine cases out of ten it will leave go — the 



XXXV1U PREFACE. 

voluntary muscles which move the fingers will unclasp the 
handkerchief though the so-called will of the player wills 
them to hold fast. Here then is an instance in which the 
voluntary muscles act in direct opposition to the will! They 
act from memory. 

I had argued all this, I say, at some length, but want of 
room has compelled me to omit it. 

I must here say one word more on the subject of religious 
faith ; for I am most anxious not to say anything which can be 
construed into hostility to religion, than which nothing can be 
further from my intention. Religion has nothing to do, and can 
have nothing to do, with the reasonings of human philosophy. 
It is a thing apart — and cannot be reduced to the rules of rea- 
soning. Nor can it ever be made the subject of philosophical 
discussions without injury to itself. It is a mystery not expli- 
cable by human reason- — and only demanding of us, not argu- 
ment, but faith. And I think this a strong argument against 
the indiscriminate spread of education amongst the multitude. 
For where are infidels and sceptics of every kind found to be most 
rife ? Is it amongst the uneducated poor ? Oh t no. It is 
amongst scholars and philosophers, and readers and thinkers— 
amongst such men as Volney and Voltaire — -Hume, Byron 
Shelley — Diderot, Gibbon, and Rousseau. 

I have received a quantity of very silly observations, enclosed to me, but not 
written, by one who signs himself "A Scribbler." They are not worthy of a 
well-grown school-boy ; and betray great obtuseness, great want of reading, 
and a plentiful lack of both scientific and literary knowledge. The writer 
objects to me that a foreigner, from what I have said about sensation, would 
take the word "sensation" to signify a "rap of the knuckles." I hope he 
would — for the word sensation does signify a "rap of the knuckles," as, 
throughout my whole work, I have taken great pains to prove. The writer 
objects to me that I have proved exactly what the greater part of the work was 
written on purpose to prove ! My readers will be satisfied with this single 
specimen. For it is sufficiently clear that the head which could produce such 
criticism, could not produce anything better. All such critics I refer for their 
answer, to Moliere's La Critique de VEcole desfemmes. But to any criticism, 
worth the name, I shall listen with respect, and (if I reply at all) reply with 
temper. 

49, Nelson Square, London. 



NUCES PHILOSOPHIC^. 



CHAPTER I. 



IMPORTANCE OF THE SUBJECT. 



A. 

Well B., there is a bitter frost without, and a blazing- 
fire within. The lights are on the table, the slippers are on our 
feet, and our feet are on the fender. Now what shall we do to 
hold the enemy in check ? Shall we break his hour-glass with 
a chess-board, or try and talk him to sleep ? 

B. 

Oh, let us talk. You were lamenting yesterday that the 
study of what is called Moral Philosophy is so little cultivated 
and understood by men generally, but is confined almost exclu- 
sively to mem of learning, You made the same observation with 
regard to the study of the nature and constitution of man, 
remarking that the study of the former is indeed comprised 
within the study of the latter. You must attribute, therefore, a 
greater degree of importance to the study of the nature and 
constitution of man than is generally awarded to it. 

A. 

If your brother when he returned from the East had 
brought with him an animal of a species wholly unknown in 
England before, and had presented it to the committee of 



2 THE IMPORTANCE 

management for the Zoological Gardens, what is the very first 
information they would have required at your brother's hands ? 

B. 

I cannot tell. 

A. 

You cannot tell ! Why they could not even feed the 
animal until they had learned from your brother the sort of food 
which was suited to its nature. Being a rare and valuable 
specimen of its species, they would necessarily be very anxious 
to provide judiciously for its health and welfare. But to enable 
them to do this, would it not be absolutely essential to acquaint 
themselves with the animal's nature — its habits— its instincts — 
its manner of feeding — its mode of lodging — in short its nature 
and constitution ? Would it be possible otherwise to provide 
for its welfare ? 

B. 

Certainly not. But you seem to forget that man has 
long forsaken the habits of nature. 

A. 

Indeed I have not. Man is living in an artificial con- 
dition, and this is precisely the circumstance which makes 
the parallel perfect. For when you have transplanted the 
animal from his natural haunt into the garden of the Zoological 
Society, you have done for it exactly what man has done for 
himself — that is, removed it from a natural to an artificial state 
of existence. And in this, its new state, it will do well enough, 
but only upon one sole condition, viz., that those who have the 
management and superintendence of its treatment, observe a 
strict regard to the nature of the animal — its natural wants and 
necessities. 

For the same reasons, how is it possible to legislate judiciously 
and successfully for the temporal welfare of man, without closely 
studying and becoming intimately acquainted with his nature 
and moral constitution ? How is it possible otherwise to 
understand what is good and what is evil with regard to his 
management — his treatment — his conduct — in a word, his 
government ? How is it otherwise possible to understand what is 
suitable or unsuitable to his nature— to his natural necessities — ■ 



OF THE SUBJECT. 3 

to the temper, constitution, and natural wants of his mind ? To 
all men who interest themselves — that is, nearly the whole of 
the upper and middle classes — in matters of social, moral, and 
political government — -in all which concerns the welfare of 
mankind — the study of the laws of human nature, or, if you 
like it better, the study of moral philosophy, is, of all studies, 
the most important. 

B. 
And the most difficult, uncertain, and unprofitable . 

A. 

If it have been hitherto unprofitable, it is because the 

study has not been prosecuted in the right manner. While the 

study of astronomy and chemistry was conducted in the same 

I manner as the study of moral philosophy is conducted still, they 

j also were uncertain and unprofitable studies. While, with regard 

' to these sciences, men continued to mistake opinion for knowledge, 

nothing certainly could be more absurd and unprofitable. But 

j as soon as philosophers discovered their error — -as soon as they 

j began to estimate opinion at no more than its true value — as 

soon as they determined to admit, with regard to those sciences, 

(more especially the latter) nothing as true but that which could 

be proved — as soon, in fact, as knowledge took the place of 

| opinion, certainty also took the place of uncertainty, light of 

darkness, and utility of unprofitable labour. 

B. 
Still you cannot deny that it is a difficult study, and 
one, the results of which can only be opinion, and therefore 
uncertain. 

A. 
I deny both. Take chemical knowledge for an example. 
Wherein doth it consist ? 

B. 

In a knowledge of the laws which govern the elements 
of matter. 

A. 
It does. And how is this knowledge obtained ? 

B. 
By experiment and observation. 

B % 



4 THE IMPORTANCE 

A. 

Even so. That is to say the best chemist knows exactly 
what he sees, and nothing more. He observes that certain 
effects are uniformly produced under certain circumstances, and 
he says these effects are produced by a law of nature ; he gives 
that law a name, and in all his future operations he takes that 
law for his guide, and never fails to produce the effects which 
he desires. What would you say of him if he should endeavour 
to produce certain effects in opposition to this law, or in contempt 
of it ? He would of course fail ; but would you attribute his 
failure to any uncertainty or difficulty inherent in the science of 
chemistry, or to his own error in the manner of prosecuting the 
study ? 

B. 

Manifestly to his own error, and I think I might justly 
add, folly. 

A. 

Let moral philosophers study the laws to which man, in 
common with all other living beings, as well vegetable as animal, 
owes his general nature, so to speak, and also those other laws 
to which he owes his individual or characteristic and distinctive 
nature — let them, like the chemist, take these laws for their 
guide — and the science of moral government will become as 
certain as the science of chemistry, and the result of the study 
will be, not opinion, but knowledge. And it will be far less 
difficult. For the chemist requires a laboratory, and instruments, 
and furnaces, and machinery, and an almost infinite variety of 
substances upon which to experiment. The moral philosopher 
needs none of all these. All his experiments can be jnade upon 
himself. He has only to study his own nature— to watch the 
operations of his own mind. He who would solve a problem in 
algebra must first study the nature of numbers ; and he who 
would solve a problem in moral philosophy must first study the 
nature of man. The grand distinguishing attributes of the 
nature of man are the faculty of speech, and its result — the 
multiplication of ideas. And as he who would become master 
of the science of algebra must study not only the nature of 
numbers, but also first make himself thoroughly acquainted 



OF THE SUBJECT. 

with the nature and use of algebraical signs, and figures which 
represent numbers ; so he who would become master of the 
science of moral philosophy must study not only the nature of 
ideas, but also the nature and use of those signs and figures of 
ideas, viz. words. 

It seems to me that legislators and popular instructors have 
almost entirely overlooked this subject — the study of human 
nature — or else have avoided it as not relevant to the object in 
view. Thus hundreds of books have been written, and thou- 
sands of speeches spoken, without once stopping to enquire into 
the nature of that being towards whose welfare they are anxious 
to contribute. They have sought to benefit him without 
stopping to enquire what is calculated to do so, and what not. 

Another reason why the study of moral philosophy has been 
so generally avoided as a science, is on account of the heaps of 
learned lumber with which it has been encumbered. Men are 
afraid to approach a study, the language of which is so loaded 
with learned, mysterious, and unintelligible terms. The writers 
on this subject have felt their own ignorance, and have sought 
to conceal it under the mask of erudition — to mystify those 
whom they could not instruct — and to inspire into the minds of 
men a notion of superiority, as understanding things which 
nobody else can understand. Thus men have acquired an idea 
that it is an exceedingly dry and uninteresting study. But it is 
only dry and uninteresting because it is not understood. For 
the same reason the study of mathematics has acquired the 
double character of being the driest of all possible studies, and 
also the most fascinating. Those who understand it have given 
it the one character, while it has only received the other from 
those who do not understand it. Why do all the world so much 
admire simplicity both of language and manners ? Because 
simple language is easily understood ; and we love simplicity of 
manners because we can easily understand the actuating motive 
of those whose manners are unaffected, but not of those whose 
manners are artificial. Any science, therefore, may be made 
interesting by treating it in such a manner as to make it readily 
understood, and by the use of language which is simple, and a 
phraseology unencumbered with useless learning. 



6 IMPORTANCE OF THE SUBJECT. 

The study of human nature, therefore, is one of the utmost 
possible importance. It is one, too, which all men may under- 
stand, and which every one ought to understand, if he would 
qualify himself to become a judge in those matters which concern 
the welfare of mankind, 



CHAPTER II. 



SOURCES OF IGNORANCE AND ERROR ON THE SUBJECT OF 
MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 

B. 

If the study of moral metaphysics be so important, easy, 
and interesting, how comes it to be so little understood even by 
those who profess to teach it ? 

A. 

The ignorance and error, in which the subject is wrapt, 
have chiefly arisen from the ignorance and error which prevail 
with regard to the nature, the uses, and significations of words, 

The earlier writers on language taught first that words are the 
signs of things, and afterwards that they are the signs of ideas ; 
from which men have jumped to the conclusion that each 
separate word is the sign of a separate idea, which being a 
fallacy, has given birth to whole hosts of fallacious opinions — ■ 
" has caused," as Home Tooke says, " a metaphysical jargon, 
and a false morality." In the very infancy of language, it is 
indeed highly probable, that every single word was the sign of 
some single sensible object, and these words were sufficient for 
the bare purpose of communicating ideas. But as men multiplied 
—as the number of their ideas increased — as their wants 
became more numerous- — as their intercourse with each other 
became more frequent™ as their occupation became more 



SOURCES OF IGNORANCE. 7 

various, constant, and important, and consequently their time 
became more precious, it became necessary not only that they 
should be able to communicate their ideas, but that they should 
also be able to do so with expedition and rapidity. Necessity 
is the mother of invention. Accordingly, contrivances have 
been discovered whereby much time is saved in the communica- 
tion of ideas. Words have been invented which are not 
themselves the signs of separate ideas, but of a vast number of 
ideas at one time ; or, if you prefer it, words which are the signs 
of other words. Thus, in order to communicate the idea of a 
house, it would be sufficient to call it a thing consisting of bricks 
and mortar, and tiles, and timber, and floors, and stoves, and 
chimneys, and windows, and doors, &c. &c. But this would 
be exceedingly inconvenient, and would occupy far too much 
time. We therefore use the word house, and make that word 
house stand for all the ideas of the several things of which a 
house is composed ; or, if you prefer it, the word house stands 
as the sign of all those words which a man must use in order to 
describe the several parts of which a house is composed. Thus, 
apart from the ideas of the several things composing a house — 
that is, apart from the ideas of bricks, and mortar, and windows, 
and roof, &c, we have, of course, no idea conveyed by this word 
house. When the word house was first invented it did not 
bring to us a single idea which we had not before. What would 
you say of a man who should talk, and argue, and quarrel about 
the idea of a house, as an idea existing in his mind distinct and 
apart from the ideas of the several matters and things which 
constitute a house ? You would say unhesitatingly that the 
man had in his mind no such idea — that it was impossible — and 
that he was, in fact, disputing about a word, a mere sound, and 
not about an idea. For when the ideas of the bricks, and the 
mortar, and the wood-work, and the tiles, and the iron-work 
are removed from the mind, what has become of the idea of the 
house? Of course it also has vanished. So of the words 
beauty, charity, &c. Men have said, " Beauty is a word, and a 
word is the sign of an idea, and therefore, whenever I pronounce 
the word beauty, I must have somewhere or other in my mind 
an idea of beauty apart from matter, since beauty is certainly 



8 SOURCES OF IGNORANCE. 

not material. It is true I cannot find this idea, nor am I con- 
scious that I possess it ; still it must be there somewhere or 
other." And so they go on disputing and quarrelling about 
this supposed idea, which has, in fact, no existence. Thus, con- 
trary to the natural order of things, instead of inventing words 
in order to distinguish the ideas which existed in their minds, 
they have invented ideas (or imaginary ideas) in order to fulfil a 
fancied obligation to attach a separate idea to every separate 
word. Taught to believe that words are singly the signs of 
ideas, men have argued that therefore the number of ideas and 
the number of words must be exactly the same. 



CHAPTER III. 



WORDS WHICH BEAR ONLY AN ARBITRARY MEANING LOSK 
THEIR POWER OF COMMUNICATING IDEAS, AND THEREFORE 
STRICTLY SPEAKING CEASE TO BE WORDS, AND BECOME 
MERE "INSIGNIFICANT NOISES,"* SERVING ONLY TO PRO- 
PAGATE ERROR AND CONFUSION. 

A. 

There are many words whose proper meanings are lost to 
the great mass of men. These words, however, still continue in 
use; but the true meanings being unknown, every man attaches to 
them arbitrary meanings of his own ; or else (which happens by 
far the most frequently) uses them without any meaning at all. 
These words, therefore, have become mere empty sounds, and 
those who so use them do indeed only " gabble like things most 
brutish." They have lost their power of communicating ideas, 

* Locke. 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS. V 

and only serve to involve mankind in virulent and endless dis- 
putes j and constantly act as hindrances, instead of promoters of 
I knowledge, virtue, and happiness. 

Three men talking together, and each giving to his words 
an arbitrary meaning of his own — that is, using words as 
the signs of ideas existing in his own mind, which words do not 
excite the same ideas in the minds of the others — do in fact 
converse in three different languages, and can no more under- 
stand each other than could three natives of different quarters 
of the globe, each being ignorant of the other's language. 

In order to show you the confusion and gross absurdity 
arising from the use of words which have "not, in the mind of 
him who uses them, a fixed and clearly defined meaning, I 
will give you an instance from the Eirea irrepoevra. A Mr. 
Harris had published a work, called Hermes, on philosophical 
grammar. Perhaps no work that ever was published created a 
greater sensation in the learned world, or was more universally 
praised and admired by learned men, than this book of Mr. 
Harris. Dr. Lowth called it " the most beautiful and perfect 
example of analysis that has been exhibited since the days of 
Aristotle." And Lord Monboddo (I believe it was) spoke of it 
thus: "the truly philosophical language of my worthy and 
learned friend Mr. Harris, the author of Hermes, a work that 
will be read and admired as long as there is any taste for philo- 
sophy and fine writing in Britain." This Mr. Harris, notwith- 
standing these high encomiums, in speaking of that part of 
speech called the "conjunction," is guilty of the following 
absurdities, and solely because he used the word " conjunction" 
without having in his mind any fixed, clear, or determinate 
meaning attached to it. "First, he defines a word to be a 'sound 
significant. 3 Then he defines conjunctions to be words (i. e. 
sounds significant) ' devoid of signification.' Afterwards he allows 
that they have — l a kind of signification.' But this kind of 
signification is — 'obscure' (i. e. signification unknown) : some- 
thing I suppose (as Chillingworth couples them) like a secret 
tradition or silent thunder ; for it amounts to the same thing as 
a signification which does not signify; an obscure or unknown 
signification being no signification at all. But, not content with 



10 ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 

these inconsistencies, which to a less learned man would have 
been sufficient of all conscience, Mr. Harris goes farther, and 
adds, that they are a ' kind of middle beings' — (he must mean 
between signification and no signification) — c sharing the attri- 
butes of both, — (i. e. of signification and no signification) and 
'conduce to link them both' — (i.e. signification and no significa- 
tion) 'together? It would have helped us a little if Mr. Harris 
had here told us what that middle state is, between signification 
and no signification ! What are the attributes of no significa- 
tion ! And how signification and no signification can be linked 
together ! Thus, then, is the conjunction explained by Mr. 
Harris :— 

A sound significant devoid of signification — 
Having at the same time a kind of obscure signification — 
And yet having neither signification nor no signification — 
But a middle something between signification and no signification 
Sharing the attributes both of signification and no signification — 
And linking signification and no signification together ! 

Is it not extraordinary that a man of unquestionable learning 
and great reading like Mr. Harris, did not know that he was 
writing nonsense ? And it is still more extraordinary that such 
a man as Dr. Lowth should admire that nonsense, as " the most 
beautiful and perfect example of analysis since the days of 
Aristotle." Had there been in Mr. Harris's mind a clear and 
distinctly defined idea attached to the word conjunction, he could 
not by possibility have written such egregious stuff as this, and 
much more of the same kind which his book contains. If the 
philosophical writing and speaking of the present day were 
analysed as Home Tooke analysed the language of Mr. Harris, 
how large a portion of it would cut as pitiful a figure as Mr. 
Harris's definition of a conjunction ! " Nor hath this mischief 
stopped" (says Locke, in his chapter on the abuse of words) 
"in logical niceties or curious empty speculations ; it hath invaded 
the concernments of human life and society ; obscured and per- 
plexed the material truths of law and divinity; brought confusion, 
disorder, and uncertainty into the affairs of mankind, and if not 
destroyed, yet in great measure rendered useless those two great 
rules, Religion and Justice. What has the greatest part of the 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS, 11 

comments and disputes upon the laws of God and man served for, 
but to make the meaning more doubtful and perplex the sense ? 
What has been the effect of those multiplied curious distinctions 
and acute niceties, but obscurity and uncertainty, leaving 
the words more unintelligible, and the reader more at a loss ? 
How else comes it to pass that princes speaking or writing to 
their servants in their ordinary commands are easily understood; 
speaking to their people in their laws, are not so ? And, as I 
remarked before, doth it not often happen, that a man of an 
ordinary capacity very well understands a text, or a law that he 
reads, till he consults an expositor, or goes to counsel ; who, by 
that time he has done explaining them, makes the words signify 
either nothing at all, or what he pleases ? 

Whether any by interests of these professions have occasioned 
this, I will not here examine ; but I leave it to be considered, 
whether it would not be well for mankind, whose concernment it 
is to know things as they are, and to do what they ought, and 
not to spend their lives in talking about them, or tossing words 
to and fro ; whether it would not be well, I say, that the use of 
words were made plain and direct ; and that language, which was 
given us for the improvement of knowledge, and bond of society, 
should not be employed to darken truth, and unsettle people's 
rights ; to raise mists, and render unintelligible both morality 
and religion ? Or that, at least, if this will happen, it should not 
be thought learning or knowledge to do so." 

Let me tell you a little fable, which, if it be not related in the 
" Dialogues of the Dead," might very properly have been so. 

Three shades were conversing together on the banks of the 
Phlegethon. One was the stately shade of an ancient Roman — 
one was the shade of a modern Italian — and the other a modern 
Englishman. The Englishman's shade was bitterly lamenting 
the decline of virtue amongst mankind. The Italian shade, who 
had been a miser, and thought no arts worth cultivation but the 
arts of getting money, observed that he thought virtue an exceed- 
ingly frivolous, insignificant, and useless thing, and that the 
sooner it declined altogether from any country the better. 
( ' Then, sir," said the Roman shade, " I must take leave to tell 
you that you are a most ' frivolous, insignificant, and useless' 



12 ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 

fellow, and not fit company for the shades of men." And he 
turned away with an expression of supreme contempt upon his 
lips. " Sir/' said the English shadow, " I agree with my friend 
the Roman. You ought to be hooted from the society of all 
good men." And the Englishman followed and rejoined the 
Roman. 

"Yes," pursued the Roman shadow, " it is indeed matter of 
deep lamentation that virtue is now almost extinct in the world. 
But how can it be otherwise, since almost all the civilized world 
are ignobly lazing away their lives in profound peace, which can 
of course afford no opportunity for the practice of virtue." 
" You astonish me," said the English shade. "Surely a state of 
peace is infinitely more favourable to the practice of virtue than 
a state of warfare!" "You talk unintelligibly," said the Roman 
Umbra. How in the name of common sense can a man show his 
virtue if he have no enemies? You speak foolishly." "Perhaps I 
do," said the English shade, " but my folly is perfect wisdom 
when compared with yours." And thereupon they turned from 
each other in mutual disgust. Whenever these three shades 
met, they henceforth quarrelled so bitterly that they were at last 
taken before judge Minos, who, as soon as he understood the 
cause of dispute, turning to the Roman, said, " pray, sir, be good 
enough to inform the court what you mean by the word virtue- 
" Mean !" said the Roman, " what can I possibly mean, but 
military valour ?" And he drew himself up to his full Roman 
height, and looked remarkably well satisfied with himself. "And 
pray, sir," addressing the Italian, " do you mean military valour 
when you use the word virtue ?" 

"No, truly," replied the Italian, "I hope I am not so 
ignorant. Of course the word means, " a taste for the fine arts. 
But I have no taste for anything but money, and therefore I 
consider virtue a very frivolous affair." "And you ?" said the 
Judge, addressing the English shadow. "I mean, what I sup- 
pose everbody else means, excepting those two ridiculous ghosts. 
I mean the practice of all good actions, and the avoidance of all 
bad ones." " Gentlemen of the Bar," said judge Minos, who 
was an excellent philosopher, "observe the ill consequences 
resulting from the arbitrary use of words. The greatest part of 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 13 

my time is taken up by settling virulent disputes, the whole of 
which would be in future avoided, if the right use of words were 
understood, and all arbitrary meanings abolished. If one of 
you, gentlemen, would take the trouble to write a dictionary of 
the most important words, attaching to each word its true and 
proper meaning, so that all might know it, and understand it 
alike, you would not only save me an infinite trouble, but render a 
most important service to the whole community of your fellow 
shadows, no less than to the cause of virtue itself." 

B. 

And this is what you propose to do ? 

A. 

Something like it. For I look upon language as a dish 
of nuts, every word being a nut, and having a little bit of 
moral philosophy for its kernel. A word is the shell of the nut, 
and the meaning of the word its kernel. And as every shell 
contains its own proper kernel, so every word contains its own 
proper meaning. And as shells which contain no kernels 
are of no earthly use, save to amuse children, so words having 
no fixed signification, serve no other purpose than to amuse 
" children of a larger growth," unless it be to afford them matter 
of contention. 

This being my opinion of words, it follows that we have only 
to crack these nuts, and the gross sum of all the kernels will give 
us the gross sum of all moral and political knowledge. But 
let me further illustrate, by another fable, the fact that words 
used in an arbitrary sense — words not having a fixed, universal, 
and determinate meaning not only do, but of necessity must 
produce error, confusion, and mischief. 

What are words ? 

B. 

Words are signs of ideas existing in the mind of him 
who uses them, and their use is to communicate those ideas to 
the minds of others. 

A. 

What is the difference between a spoken and a written word ? 

B. 

None whatever. A written word is merely the sign of 



14 ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 

a spoken one, and is only necessary when" those with whom one 
wonld communicate are beyond the reach of hearing. But this 
is a distinction without a difference. 

A. 

Both written and spoken words then are signs invented 
for the communication of ideas. 

B. 

Assuredly. 

A. 

But I suppose, since the words "sign" and "signal" are 
synonymous, I may, if I prefer it, use the word u signal." 

B. 

Undoubtedly. 

A. 

Then I do prefer it. And now for the fable. You 
know that the admiral of a fleet communicates his orders to the 
captains of ships by means of signals — -that is, by means of small 
flags of different colours. These flags are used because those to 
whom the admiral would communicate his ideas are beyond the 
reach of hearing, and because it would occupy too much time to 
send his orders by means of written letters. They serve, there- 
fore, precisely the same ends which are the sole object of both 
written or spoken language. "Well — a fleet of fifty-two ships 
was once sent to sea in search of th e enemy, having on board an 
admiral and fifty-two captains. The admiral desired his secre- 
tary to make fifty-two fair copies of his book of signals, and 
deliver them out to the fifty-two captains. But this secretary 
was a traitor in the pay of the enemy, and instead of annexing 
to the signal flags in the captains 5 books the true meaning of 
each flag as it stood in the admiral's book, he annexed to each 
flag an arbitrary meaning of his own, differing from that which 
the admiral's book exhibited. 

The enemy soon hove in sight. Up went the admiral's signal 
(a red flag) for "take close order," and down went the captains 
into their cabins to consult their dictionaries (I mean their signal 
books) for the meaning of a " red flag." Captain A's book 
informed him that it meant " take more sea-room," and captain 
A instructed his lieutenant accordingly ; and the lieutenant 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 15 

instructed the sub-lieutenant, and the sub -lieutenant instructed 
the midshipmen, and the midshipmen instructed the seamen, 
who caused the ship to "take more sea-roora." But captain B's 
book told him that the red flag signified "prepare for action." 
So captain B instructed his lieutenant that the admiral by his 
red flag had ordered the fleet to prepare for action, and the 
lieutenant so instructed the inferior officers and seamen, who 
cleared the ship accordingly. Captain C on consulting his book, 
found that the red flag signified " make more sail." And captain 
C instructed his lieutenant, and his lieutenant the midshipmen, 
and the midshipmen the sailors, and the sailors " made more 
sail" accordingly. 

Thus the captains themselves, all in error, propagated that 
error to the inferior officers, and they to the people — I beg 
pardon — I mean the crew. In the mean time all the other 
captains were equally active in obeying what, according to the 
arbitrary interpretation of his own particular book, each honestly 
believed to be the order of the admiral. All were wrong; but 
all thought themselves right, and all were equally active in pro- 
pagating error among their inferior officers and crews. The 
captain of each vessel looked around him in astonishment at the 
unaccountable confusion into which the fleet was thrown. Every 
one of them might have been seen stamping, and swearing, and 
blustering, and blaming everybody but himself. Captain A 
wondered at, and reprobated the conduct of captains B, C, D ; 
and captain B wondered at, and reprobated the conduct of 
captains A, C, D. 

The admiral, enraged at what he conceived to be disobedience 
to his orders, sent up flag after flag- — green, yellow, blue — but 
to no purpose. The confusion only became worse confounded. 
At last, overwhelmed with grief, shame, and deep mortification, 
and seeing that nothing could save the fleet from being taken or 
destroyed by the enemy, he threw himself into his gig, was rowed 
ashore in dead silence, from whence he hastened to bury him- 
self in an obscure nook in the country under an assumed name. 
Every ship in the fleet became a prize to the enemy, and officers 
and men were carried prisoners into a foreign country. Here the 
officers did nothing but quarrel among themselves from morning 



16 ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 

till night. For each was most positively certain that he himself 
was right, and very naturally attributed all the confusion and 
mischief which had arisen to the stupidity or treachery of the 
others. Seventeen duels were fought within the first three 
months, for all their signal books had been destroyed by the 
enemy, and so could not be referred to. The periodical publi- 
cations of the time were filled with the most heterogeneous 
accounts of the failure of the expedition. The editor of one, 
being intimately acquainted with captain A, and knowing him 
to be man of great talent and courage, asserted that the action 
was lost through the stupidity of the captains, all of whom, 
excepting captain A, mistook the signals. Another, being the 
uncle of captain B, and knowing his nephew to be a talented 
man, and an excellent sailor, protested that the expedition had 
failed through the stupidity of all the captains except one, as was 
stated by his brother editor. But as to the particular indivi- 
dual, who alone understood and obeyed the signal, his brother 
editor was entirely mistaken. That individual was not captain 
A, but captain B. And hereupon a furious war was waged 
between the two brother editors. Each of the periodicals of 
the day differed from the others. But each was the oracle of a 
class, and by that class was implicitly believed. And this 
ignorance and error was propagated from individuals to classes, 
and from class to class. Years afterwards these periodicals 
became the reservoirs from which historians drew their opinions 
when they sat down to incorporate the failure of this expedition 
in the archives of the country. Each particular historian had 
his particular class of readers and admirers, and this ignorance 
and error, at first propagated from individuals to classes, and 
from class to class, became finally transmitted from generation 
to generation. Now I ask you what was the sole cause of all 
this mischief — this mass of human misery and human error ? 

B. 

In this particular instance, manifestly the captains not 
having understood the meaning of the signals. 

A. 

Yes. It was not because each flag had not its own proper 
and definite meaning, but because this meaning was not the 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 17 

meaning attached to it by those for whose instruction the flag 
was hoisted. The red flag stood as the sign of clear and well 
l| defined ideas in the admiral's mind, but did not stand as the sign 
' of the same ideas in the minds of the captains, but an arbitrary 
I meaning had been affixed to it by the treachery of the secretary. 
I But, of course, it would have led to the same results had these 
I arbitrary meanings been attached to the flags by the captains 
j themselves. Hence it follows that words, or flags, which are pre- 
cisely of the same nature and use as written words, and may very 
: properly be called telegraphic words — words, I say, whose mean- 
i ings are arbitrary, not universal, not fixed — words to which every 
man attaches a meaning peculiar to himself, or may do so if he 
pleases — are not only useless as instruments of knowledge, but 
inevitably produce perpetual misunderstandings, mischiefs of all 
sorts, and misery of every denomination. 

B. 
You mean to say that when once a word has been invented 
to signify a particular idea, or set of ideas, it must always 
continue to be used in that sense and no other. 

A. 
I do. Because if one man may depart from the original 
meaning, so may another, and another. And these will propa- 
gate their new meanings amongst those whom they instruct ; as, 
for instance, their children and servants. And hence it will 
happen that those who have been instructed by A in the mean- 
ing of an important word, when they hear that word used by 
those who have learned its meaning from B, will not understand 
them. The same thing would happen which happened on board 
the fleet. Captain A instructed his lieutenant, and his lieutenant 
the midshipmen, and the midshipmen the sailors, in one mean- 
ing of the red flag ; and captain B instructed his lieutenant, and 
his lieutenant the midshipmen, and the midshipmen the sailors, 
in another meaning. And as the admiral, who alone could have 
decided between them, had absconded, the inferior officers and 
the crew of captain A continued, as long as they lived, firmly to 
believe that the admiral's red signal flag meant "take more 
sea-room," and nothing else; while the officers and crew of 
captain B's ship continued equally firm in their faith that it 

c 



18 ARBITRARY MEANINGS, 

signified "prepare for action." Now, had the red flag been an 
audible sign instead of a visible one ; had it been a spoken 
word, instead of a telegraphic word ; and had one of captain A's 
sailors, in after life, met one of captain B's, and used that word 
as a good-humoured way of requesting the other to give him 
more room, it is probable that the other, understanding the word 
to mean, as he had been taught, " prepare for action," would 
have interpreted it into a challenge to fight, or a threat, and 
nothing loth, would have made an angry retort, or some insult- 
ing reply, and thus a real and serious quarrel would have taken 
place. After bruising each other heartily, it is probable that 
captain A's man would have assured the other that he did not 
intend to affront him. They might have finally discovered that 
the quarrel had originated in their having understood the mean- 
ing of the word differently. But then would have come the 
question : whose meaning was the true one ? And here would have 
been fresh cause of quarrel. Each would have contended for the 
meaning in which he had been in the habit of hearing it used on 
board his own ship. Each would have confidently believed him- 
self right, and would have wondered at the obstinacy of the 
other, yet both would have been wrong, since the admiral's red 
flag signified neither " take more sea-room," nor " prepare for 
action," but " take close order." Now, this sort of quarrel is 
what is constantly occurring, day by day, in social and public 
communities. Men are perpetually quarrelling about words, 
because, every man attaching to his words meanings of his own, 
and which meanings are not attached to the same words in the 
minds of others, they cannot possibly understand each other, and 
therefore each in his heart, and often with his tongue, accuses the 
other of duplicity and falsehood ; or, at the least, of obstinate 
stupidity, and bull-headed wilfulness. "I was once," says 
Locke, " in a meeting of very learned and ingenious physicians, 
when by chance there arose a question, whether any liquor passed 
through the filaments of the nerves. The debate having been 
managed a good while, by variety of arguments on both sides, I 
(who had been used to suspect that the greatest part of disputes 
was more about the signification of words than a real difference 
in the conception of things) desired that, before they went any 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 19 

further on in this dispute, they would first examine and establish 
amongst them, what the word liquor signified. They at first 
were a little surprised at the proposal; and had they been 
persons less ingenious, they might perhaps have taken it for a 
very frivolous or extravagant one : since there was no one there 
that thought not himself to understand very perfectly what the 
word liquor stood for ; which I think too, none of the most per- 
plexed names of substances. However, they were pleased to com- 
ply with my motion, and upon examination, found that the signi- 
fication of that word was not so settled and certain as they had 
all imagined ; but that each of them made it a sign of a different 
complex idea. This made them perceive that the main of their 
dispute was about the signification of that term; and that 
they differed very little in their opinions concerning some fluid 
and subtle matter passing through the conduits of the nerves ; 
though it was not so easy to agree whether it was to be called 
liquor or no, a thing which, when each considered, he thought it 
not worth the contending about." 

B. 

And like the "learned and ingenious physicians" of 
Locke, you mean to insinuate that the political physicians of 
mankind would be found to agree much oftener than they do, if 
they would but, before they begin to argue, first settle the 
meaning of the principal terms to be used in the argument. 

A. 

Exactly. If the legislators of a country would but first 
settle among themselves, what is to be uniformly understood by 
such words as right, wrong, good, bad, better, justice, improve- 
ment, reform, honor, dishonor, law, principle, &c. &c, I think 
it is clear that much sound knowledge would take the place of 
much ridiculous opinion, that good argument would succeed to 
a mere noisy jargon, and confusion and much misery he super- 
seded by good order, and an increase of human happiness. It 
would no longer happen as it does now, that the morality of one 
man is heinous in the eyes of another — that the "right" of 
to-day is the "wrong" of to-morrow — that what one man con- 
siders improvement, another believes to be deterioration — that 
justice often becomes injustice — honor, dishonor — principle, no 
principle at all— and law itself unlawful. 



20 ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 

B. 

I grant most readily that society is as full of confusion 
as the fleet in the fable; and that much, very much of this con- 
fusion, as well as a great deal of mischief, is the sole result of 
the different meanings which different men attach to important 
words. But the remedy ? 

A. 

What would have been the only remedy capable of restoring 
the fleet to order, had there been time to adopt it, and which 
could also have prevented all the misery, misunderstandings, 
and errors which ensued ? 

B. 

The rectification of the captains* signal books by that of 
the admiral. The abolition of all the arbitrary meanings intro- 
duced by the traitorous secretary, and the restoration of the true 
meaning to each flag, as it stood in the admiral's book. But 
before I proceed to question, as I certainly shall do, the possi- 
bility of applying this remedy to the words in common use by 
society at large, let me see if I thoroughly understand your 
parable of the fleet in all its parts. By the fleet of fifty-two 
ships I presume you mean, the fifty-two counties called England 
and Wales. 

A. 

I do. 

B. 

By the captains you would typify the ancient authors, 
especially those philosophical writers on the subject of language. 

A. 

Yes. 

B. 

By the inferior officers you indicate later writers and 
speakers, who have been misled by the elder philosophers, in the 
use of language, as the inferior officers were misled by the 
captains. And by the common seamen you mean the common 
people, whose notions and conduct are governed by the instruc- 
tions they receive from their superiors. By the individual ships 
with their officers and crews, you intend the individual factions 
into which society is divided ; and by the confusion into which 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 21 

I the fleet was thrown by the attachment of wrong and dif- 
ferent meanings to the signal flags by the officers of each ship, 
you signify the political and moral confusion produced by the 
I attachment of arbitrary meanings to important words by the 
leaders of each faction. So far so good. But who is the 
traitorous secretary? 

A. 
Time. Time is the traitorous secretary, who, if he have 
not altered the meanings of words, has so altered the words 
themselves, that they can no longer be recognised without the 
most careful and minute examination ; and thus it has happened 
that, for want of time to examine, men have been content to 
guess both at the word and its meaning, and, as usual with all 
guessing, they have generally guessed wrong. At all events, 
different men have guessed differently. 

B. 
Still I think your parallel will not hold entirely good. 
The confusion on board the fleet arose from actual disobedience 
to positive orders. True this disobedience was unintentional, 
but it was nevertheless disobedience. But is it possible for any 
man so completely to misunderstand an act of parliament as to 
act unintentionally in direct opposition to it ? 

A. 
Are there no laws but acts of parliament? Are there 
not certain kinds of conduct which no acts of parliament can 
influence ? Are there not the laws of honor? The laws of just 
dealing ? The laws of integrity and good principle ? Is there 
not a general though tacit law which commands us to do 
right? To do no wrong? To encourage and forward all im- 
provements? To reform abuses? To act honorably towards each 
other ? Are there not these and many others ? But how are 
all men to do right, if all men understand the term in different 
senses? How are all men to act honorably, if that which 
is honorable in the mind of one man is dishonorable in the 
mind of another ? How is a man to know whether or not he be 
a man of "principle," if no one understand the meaning of the 
word, or, which is the same thing, if all men attach to the word 
"principle" different significations ? See you not, too, what a 



22 ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 

cloak this loose and unsettled condition of language affords to 
every kind of bad action ? A man performs a certain action. 
The only proof that can be brought to show that it is bad, is 
opinion — the opinion of others. But precisely the same proof 
can be brought to show that it is good, viz. opinion — the 
opinion of himself. Thus, nothing can be proved to be either 
good or bad, excepting only that which is contrary to some 
written law. But there are numberless actions, both good and 
bad, which do not come within the meaning of any written law 
whatever. Hence arise false doctrines, heresies, and schisms — 
hence the variety of contending opinions on moral and political 
subjects — and these must necessarily continue to arise so long 
as men continue to use words in senses which do not belong to 
them — senses which are arbitrary — senses which result solely 
from the opinions of individuals — senses which are not fixed and 
universal, and which are therefore as various and numerous as 
the individuals who use them, and which change their meanings 
as the chameleon changes its colour, with every change of cir- 
cumstance. 

B. 

But stop a little. I said that a reference to the admi- 
ral's book, had there been time, would have restored the fleet 
to order. But you remember that soon after the commencement 
of the uproar, the admiral was reported missing, and I presume 
took his book with him. After this, I do not see how it was 
possible to rectify the disorder. 

A. 

On that particular occasion it was impossible ; for the 
admiral did fortunately take his book with him, and so saved 
it from destruction by the enemy. But it is not lost — only 
missing. 

B. 

When the officers and crew returned from foreign im- 
prisonment, they of course immediately sought out the admiral, 
and so at once put an end to all their disputes. 

A. 

Of course they did no such thing. They might ^have 
done so ; but some were afraid to look him in the face, from an 



ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 23 

I ill-defined fear which would sometimes force itself upon them, 
that, after all, perhaps, it was just possible that the admiral 

I might prove them, somehow or other, to be wrong. So they 
preferred retaining their old notions, at the hazard of their being 

j erroneous. For it is painful to part even with an error which 
has been long cherished and obstinately defended. Man's self- 

i love, too, suffers a fancied humiliation in having it proved that 

!| his swan is but a goose after all. Others really believed the 
admiral dead, and his book irrecoverably lost. Others again 
were too lazy and indifferent about the whole matter to take the 
trouble to look for him. A few found it to be to their interest 

I that the subject should still continue involved in doubt and 
mystery. But by far the greatest number were so perfectly 

| satisfied and confident, each that his own opinion was the true 
one, that they thought it wholly superfluous, and a mere loss 
of time, to go in search of the admiral's book. 

B. 
I am not quite sure that I understand what you mean by the 
admiral's book. Do you mean that in language there is any 
standard by which the meanings of words can be regulated and 
established universally, and so all confusion and misapprehension 
avoided ? 

A. 
Most certainly I do — a standard by which all men, not only 
ought to regulate the meanings of the words they use, but by 
which they must regulate them, or else must pay the penalty 
of that confusion, discord, mismanagement, and jarring interests, 
which we see everywhere pervading the great family of mankind; 
just as certainly as confusion, mismanagement, and failure, must 
be the lot of any fleet where the signals used to regulate the 
conduct of the ships are not understood by those who use them, 
or by those for whose information they are exhibited. In either 
case it is not a matter of doubt — but a matter of absolute and 
inevitable necessity. 

B. 
On board a fleet I grant this to be true. But are you quite 
sure that the cases run perfectly parallel ? Is there really no 
difference between words and signal flags ? 



24 ARBITRARY MEANINGS. 

A. 
I confess I know of none. For is not a flag a signal ? 



Yes, 

A signal of what ? 



B. 

A. 



B. 

Of ideas present in the mind of him who uses it. And he 
uses it for the purpose of communicating those ideas to the 
minds of others, and for no other purpose. 

A. 

And what else are words than signals of ideas present in the 
mind of him who uses them ? And what other purpose do they 
answer than that of communicating those ideas to the minds of 
others ? Absolutely none. 



CHAPTER IV. 



THE CONNEXION EXISTING BETWEEN WORDS AND THE 
THINGS WHICH THEY SIGNIFY. 

B. 

Now, then, where shall we find the admiral's book ? 

A. 

If the signal-flags used on board a fleet, instead of being of 
different colours, were all white, and had their several meanings 
inscribed upon them, each upon each, in large characters, so 
that the officers of all the fleet could read them at almost any 
distance, would not that render an admiral's book unnecessary ? 

B. 

Certainly, if such a plan were practicable, all signal books 
would then be unnecessary. Even the crews of the ships would 



WORDS AND THINGS. 25 

then understand the meaning of the signals without applying to 
their officers for instructions, and thus running the risk of 
being instructed in an error. This indeed would be an admir- 
able plan. There could then be no error — no mistake. And 
even if one man, being a little near-sighted, should mistake the 
inscription on any one flag, he could instantly be set right by 
another man, or by using a telescope. But you cannot mean 
that the meanings of words are inscribed on the words themselves ! 

A. 
But indeed I do. That is precisely my meaning. I mean 
that the word and its meaning are naturally, and necessarily, not 
arbitrarily, so associated in the mind, that whenever the word is 
pronounced, it instantly excites in the mind the idea or ideas of 
which that word is the signal. I say that this association in the 
mind is the reason of that word having been made the sign of 
that or those ideas, and no other. I say that every word carries 
with it its own meaning, and that if it do not, it has no meaning 
at all. I say that the meaning of a word is not and cannot be 
arbitrary, but is inherent and intrinsic — that the word and its 
meaning are inseparable— that the meaning of a word belongs 
to it as a part of itself — that the word is given to the meaning 
and not the meaning to the word — that they are to each other 
in the relation of cause and effect, and the meaning is the cause 
of the word, and not the word the cause of the meaning — that 
there is, therefore, a natural relation between the sign and the 
thing signified, from which the word results — and that this 
natural relation is indestructible so long as the word remains a 
word, for as soon as that relation is destroyed, there is no longer 
any reason why a particular word should be made the sign of 
any one idea or set of ideas more than another, unless indeed it 
be universal consent, which can only be obtained with regard to 
the very commonest sensible objects — and, there being now no 
longer any reason why that particular word should represent 
any one particular idea, or set of ideas, more than another, it will 
soon be made the sign of fifty different ideas by fifty different 
people — and as soon as this happens, it ceases to be a word, 
having lost the great attribute of words, viz. the power of 
communicating ideas, and becomes a mere empty and senseless 



26 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

sound, meaning anything which he who uses it may choose to i 1$ 
attach to it, and, therefore, meaning nothing at all to others, 
since it is manifest that a word which may mean anything, does, 
in reality, mean nothing. 

" Words may undoubtedly at sometimes, and by some persons, 
be so abused; and too frequently they are so abused. And 
when any word or termination becomes generally so abused, it 
becomes useless ; and, in fact, ceases to be a word ; for that is 
not a word whose signification is unknown." — Home Tooke. 
And again : " He that puts not constantly the same sign for the 
same idea, but uses the same word sometimes in one, and some* 
times in another, signification, ought to pass in the schools and 
conversation for as fair a man, as he does in the market and 
exchange, who sells several things under the same name." — 
Locke. In short, I say that the meaning of every word is 
inscribed upon the word itself, and is a definition of the thing 
signified. I do not mean such a definition as would satisfy a 
mathematician, but one sufficiently characteristic to direct the 
mind of the hearer to the objects intended. 

B. 

Illustrate — illustrate. Illustrations are " the windows which 
let in the best light." 

A. 

As a familiar instance, take the word steam-vessel. Is 
not the meaning stamped upon the word ? It not the word 
itself a definition ? Destroy the relation which here manifestly 
exists between the sign and the thing signified — and which 
relation was the cause of the imposition of the name — lose sight 
entirely of the idea of steam involved in the word over and above 
the ideas which it more immediately represents — and the word 
might be, and would be, applied to one kind of vessel as well as 
another, and with just as much propriety, that is, no propriety at 
all. And being applied to signify any vessel, it would signify 
no one in particular, and so become absolutely useless, we having 
already general terms to signify water-vehicles. But the term 
steam-vessel is the sign of a multitude of ideas — of all those 
ideas which represent the several parts which go to the compo- 
sition of a steam-vessel- — whereof steam is one essential part. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 27 

And it is this one essential part which first caused the imposition 
■ of that name on that object, and which gives it its propriety, and 
I which forms the indestructible connexion between the sign or 
| name, and the thing signified or named. Again : the words 
{ hiss, crackle, snap, bubble, tinckle, squeak, roar. So again the 
! Greek word gugu, the Italian gorgoliare, and the English 
guggle. You may, in your own mind, attach to each of these 
j three words what meaning you please, but if you would be under- 
stood, you must use them to represent that peculiar noise made 
! by a liquid as it issues by gushes from a narrow-necked bottle , 
If these words do not mean this they mean nothing. 

B. 
But these words are merely imitations of natural sounds 
by the human voice. 

A. 
That is true. Still they serve to show the manner in which the 
names of things arise out of the things themselves — the custom 
of determining the name by some relation existing between the 
thing signified and the sign used to represent it, and to show 
that there exists a reason why a particular word should be used 
to signify one particular thing, and no other. If they do not 
prove, they at least help to prove, the truth of Home Tooke's 
assertion, that " there is nothing strictly arbitrary in language." 
But let us try another class of words. For instance : 
Yellow-hammer 
Red-breast 
Black-cap g> Peculiarity of color 

Black-bird | 

CD 

H» 

o 

„ _ Peculiarity of note 

Cuckoo 

B. 

But all these words, except the two last, and also your word 
steam-vessel, are not single words, but, in fact, they are each of 
them two words. 

A. 

I see not how that alters the case, for custom and the hyphen 



28 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

have made each of these two words, one. And had each of the 
former words ended with a vowel, and each of the latter begun 
with a vowel, it is probable that the former and the latter, would 
have been so blended together as to be, at first sight, no longer 
distinguishable. But if you object to these double words, let us 
select some others. Take, for instance, the words neighbour, 
acorn, island, byidal, ballast, are these double words ? 

B. 

No — and, therefore, although I perfectly well understand the 
meaning of them, yet I confess I cannot see their meaning 
inscribed upon them. 

A. 

I perceive you are not very deeply read in the writers on 
etymology, and indeed there are but few worth the reading. If 
you were, what need of this conversation ? But there are 
thousands and tens of thousands of highly intelligent persons 
in the empire, who, like yourself, have been too early impelled 
by necessity to go out into the world in search of the means of 
living, and have since been too constantly occupied with the 
more pressing concerns of business, to find time to go a-fishing 
in the muddy waters of etymological learning ; and that too 
with the very probable chance of catching scarcely a fish a-week, 
and that one fish, perhaps, but a tittle-bat. And yet I assert 
that a knowledge of the nature of language is absolutely and 
imperatively necessary to a knowledge of the nature of things. 
" I very early found it, or thought I found it/'" says Home 
Tooke, " impossible to make many steps in the search after 
truth, and the nature of the human understanding, of good and 
evil, of right and wrong, without well considering the nature of 
language, which appeared to me to be inseparably connected with 
them." And "the consideration of ideas and words," says 
Locke, "as the great instrument of knowledge, makes no 
despicable part of their contemplation, who would take a view of 
human knowledge in the whole extent of it." 

"And lastly," says Lord Bacon, " let us consider the false 
appearances that are imposed upon us by words, which are 
framed and applied according to the conceit and capacities of 
the vulgar sort : and although we think we govern our words, 



WORDS AND THINGS. 29 

and prescribe it well, loquendum ut vulgus, sendiendum ut sapi- 
entes ; yet certain it is, that words, as a Tartar's bow, do sboot 
back upon the understanding of the wisest, and mightily 
entangle and pervert the judgment. So that it is almost necessary 
in all controversies and disputations to imitate the wisdom of the 
mathematicians, in setting down in the very beginning the 
definition of our words and terms, that others may know how 
we accept and understand them, and whether they concur with 
us or no. For it cometh to pass, for want of this, that we are 
sure to end there where we ought to have begun, which is in 
questions and differences about words." And again: Bishop 
Wilkins says, "this design will likewise contribute much to 
the clearing of some of our modern differences in religion ;" (and 
he might have added, in all other disputable subjects, especially 
in matters of law and civil government) — " by unmasking many 
wild errors, that shelter under the disguise of affected phrases ; 
which, being philosophically unfolded, and rendered according 
to the genuine and natural importance of words, will appear to 
be inconsistencies and contradictions. And several of those pre- 
tended mysterious, profound notions, expressed in great swelling 
words, whereby some men set up for reputation, being this way 
examined, will appear to be either nonsense, or very flat and 
jejune. And though it should be of no other use but this, yet 
were it in these days well worth a man's pains and study, con- 
sidering the common mischief that is done, and the many impos- 
tures and cheats that are put upon men, under the disguise of 
affected insignificant phrases." 

And again: "I undertook this," says Home Tooke, "because 
it afforded a very striking instance of the importance of the 
meaning of words, not only (as has been too lightly supposed) 
to metaphysicians and schoolmen, but to the rights and hap- 
piness of mankind in their dearest concerns — the decisions 
of courts of justice." And again: "language, it is true, is 
an art, and a glorious one, whose influence extends over all 
others, and in which, finally, all science whatever must centred 
Yet, notwithstanding this great importance of a clear knowledge 
of the use and nature of language, I am certain I speak the 
truth when I say, that there is not one man in a thousand, no, 



30 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

nor in ten thousand, who understands his mother-tongue. 
But this ignorance does not arise because any great learning is 
required in order to enable a man to understand it ; for, says 
Home Tooke in another part of his work, the Eirea nrrepoevTa, 
" a man of plain common sense may obtain it, if he will dig for 
it ; but I cannot think that what is commonly called learning is 
the mine in which it will be found. Truth, in my opinion, has 
been improperly imagined at the bottom of a well : it lies much 
nearer to the surface ; though buried indeed at present under 
mountains of learned rubbish; in which there is nothing to 
admire but the amazing strength of those giants of literature 
who have been able thus to heap Pelion on Ossa." Now, I 
think it is these same " mountains of learned rubbish" which 
have concealed this important branch of knowledge from the 
general reader, frightened him from all attempts to acquire it, 
and hindered him from seeing its vast importance, necessity, and 
intimate connexion with all the nearest and dearest concernments 
of humanity. 

It is the fashion, too, notwithstanding the authority of the 
great men just mentioned, Locke, Bacon, Wilkins, Home Tooke, 
to decry that species of knowledge which deals in words. "Out 
upon words," say these wiseacres, " give us things !" And 
having said this, with all the pomp of self-satisfied decision, they 
fancy they have choked you with an unanswerable argument. In 
the words of my text, they do but i( gabble like things most 
brutish." Eor they might just as sensibly rail at the farmer for 
growing corn. Just as sensibly they might exclaim, " out upon 
corn ! Give us bread !" For it is just as easy to have bread 
without corn, as a knowledge of things, without a knowledge of 
words. These men might safely be left in the undisturbed 
possession of their own wise notions — for these are not the sort 
of men to destroy the Capital by setting the Thames on fire — 
but the constant reiteration of this silly doctrine produces the 
mischief of making those, who are not habituated to think for 
themselves, believe there is really something in it, besides " mere 
jargon and insignificant noise." 

But " let us return to our sheep." The words which I last 
mentioned are not, as you suppose, single words ; but every one 



WORDS AND THINGS. 31 

of them is, like the others you objected to, a double word. You 
say that you cannot see that the meaning of these words are 
inscribed upon them. But that is only because Time, the trai- 
torous secretary, has so blotted and blurred the inscription, that 
it is necessary to put on the spectacles of etymology in order to 
decypher it. And, by the way, this same etymology is what I 
meant by the admiral's signal-book. 

Neighbour — consists of two words : neah, (near) in the Friesic 

dialect nei, and the Anglo- Saxon word bur (a dwelling) 

— a near dwelling. This word bur is also the parent of 

our word bower — a lady's bower or dwelling. 

Acorn — is aac or ac (an oak) and corn (fruit, produce) — that is, 

the fruit or produce of the oak. 
Island — antiently written ealand, ealond, igland, iglond, and, in 
low Dutch and German, eiland — is compounded of the 
Anglo-Saxon words ea (water) and land; and signifies 
water-land, land in water, or surrounded by water. 
Bridal — antiently written bryd-eala, is made up of the Anglo- 
Saxon bryd (a bride) and eala, (ale) and signifies bride's 
ale, bride's feast, or marriage festival. 
Ballast — is also made up of two Anglo-Saxon words. Hlcest 
— in low Dutch, German, Danish, and Swedish, last, 
signifies a burthen or loading ; and bat signifies a boat — 
bat-last — or boat-burthen — a weight or burthen put 
into a boat to keep it steady in the water. For 
euphony's sake, the t is dropt and the l doubled, making 
one word ballast. From this word hlcest (the diphthong 
pronounced broad, like a in father) comes our word last 
— a last of corn — that is, a certain measure or burthen 
of corn. Does not each of these words carry with it its 
own meaning ? 

B. 
Yes — but each of these, though I knew it not, turns out to be 
a double word. I should like to hear some examples of the same 
kind in single words. You have instanced the double word 
yellow-hammer, which is, I believe, the name of a bird with 
yellow plumage. But what is the meaning of the word yellow 
singly. Has this word also its meaning inscribed upon it ? 



38 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

A. 

It has. As the word hrown means burnt, so the word yellow 
means ignited, kindled, lighted up. "Brown as well as brand," 
says Home Tooke, " are the past participle of the verb to bren, 
or to brin, that is, to burn. The French and Italians have in 
their languages this same participle, written by them brun and 
bruno. Brown means burned. It is that colour which things 
have which have been burned." 

Just before the cook takes up her joint of roasted meat from 
the fire, she moves it closer to it for a few minutes. If you ask 
her why she does this, she will tell you that she does so in order 
"to brown it"— that is, to burn it— to give it a burnt color — 
the color " which things have which have been burned. 3 ' The 
difference of sound between bum and brown is of no weight 
whatever. Our ancestors had nothing to guide them in their 
pronunciation but the ear. It is not at all singular, therefore, 
that different men should pronounce differently the same word, 
especially when it is remembered that there are certain letters 
and combinations of letters which some men cannot articulate. 
Thus, certain persons cannot articulate the letter r, but for row 
always say wow — for rogue, wogue, &c. And some cannot 
pronounce our ngth, but for strength say strenth. Others cannot 
pronounce the shr, but for shrew say srew. Others cannot 
pronounce the m before b, but for dumb say dub. This gave 
rise to the frequent transposition of letters, and they sometimes 
s&i&forst, and sometimes frost — sometimes gcers (the diphthong 
pronounced broad like a in father) and sometimes grass. And 
it must be further recollected that, as the common people had 
no other guide to their pronunciation than the ear, so neither 
had those who wrote any other guide to their spelling. They 
spelled words as they heard them pronounced, and as they were 
pronounced differently, so also were they necessarily spelled 
differently. There were no spelling-books in those days. For 
the same reason the harsh, guttural, Anglo-Saxon g was fre- 
quently softened to the sound of our y ; and the vowels were 
used almost indifferently one for another. I am speaking more 
particularly of that period during which the language was 
gradually undergoing a transition from Anglo-Saxon to our 



WORDS AND THINGS. 66 

present English, and when it had already been corrupted by an 
infusion of Danish, and other northern dialects, as well as 
Norman French, from its original Anglo-Saxon purity. At the 
present day, if we had no other guide for our orthography but 
the ear, the common people of London (and our far-off ancestors 
were all common people in matters of literature) would write en 
for hen, and hegg for egg — wast for vast, and von for won. And 
in the same manner certain consonants were mutually inter- 
changed by our forefathers, as f, b, p, and v — t and d, &c. &c. 
And this must ever be the case, more and less, in the infancy of 
all languages, for there is an " anatomical reason for it" — all 
men's organs of speech are not formed precisely alike, any more 
than their other organs, or their features, and this is the reason 
why some persons have great difficulty in articulating a sound, 
which to others is easy enough ; but in polished societies, where 
pronunciation is, in great measure, regulated by orthography, 
this difficulty is overcome by constant practice on the part of 
those who experience it. 

The Anglo-Saxon words signifying to hum, were bcernan, 
byrnan, and the Low German, brennen — Dutch, branden, 
burnen — Francic, brinnan — Danish, brdnde. It will not surprise 
you, therefore, considering what I have just said, that our 
phrase to burn, during the age of transition, and after the 
prefix to had been substituted for the infinitive termination an 
in order to mark the infinitive mood, should have been written 
indifferently to bren, to brin, to brand, to bourne. And that our 
substantive, a burn, should have been written sometimes byrne, 
bryne, and broune — that our participle burned should be some- 
times written burne — our word burnt, bront — and our adjective 
brown, brun (pronounced broon.) 

" Newe grene chese of smalle clammynes comfortethe a hotte 
stomake, as Rasis sayth, it repressethe his brounes (burns or 
burnings) and heate." — Regiment of Helthe. 

"It bourneth over moche." — Regiment of Helthe. 

" In our word brandy, (German, brandwein, burnt wine) brand 
is the same participle, and signifies burned" — brandy being a 
liquor produced by the agency of fire in distillation. 

"All colors in all languages," says the author I have just 



34 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

quoted, "must have their denomination from some common 

object, or from some circumstances which produce those colors. 

So Vossius well derives the Latin fuscus (brown) from the Greek 

phoskein, which Hippocrates uses in the sense of ustulare (to 

burn) ; for things which are burnt become brown" In like 

manner — 

Yellow — gecdged (the g softened into y, and the diphthong 
pronounced broad, like a in father, yealged,) is the past 
participle of ge-mlan, to light up — to kindle into a flame. 
So the Latin word flavus, (yellow) an&flammeus, (flame- 
colored or yellow) are nothing more than the Greek 
phlegma, (a flame) which, in its turn, comes from phlego, 
(to burn.) As our brown therefore means burnt, so our 
yellow signifies literally, kindled- — figuratively, flame- 
colored. 

Book — Anglo-Saxon, boc — Low German, book— Eriesic and 
Dutch, Boek- — German, Buch — Mcesogothic, Swedish, 
and Icelandic, Bok — Danish, Bog — signifies a beech 
tree, the books of the northern nations having been 
made of thin pieces of wood cut from that species of tree. 
Thus also the Latin word liber (a book) signified the 
inner bark of a tree, that being the material of which the 
Latins originally made their books. So again the Greek 
biblos (a book) signified an Egyptian plant, (the cyperus 
papyrus of Linnaeus) which, when divided into laminse 
and formed into sheets to write upon, was called papuros, 
hence papyrus— and hence also our word paper. 

Shoulder — Anglo-Saxon, sculder, from the Icelandic skiolldr, (a 
shield) ; and that again from skiol, (a refuge, a defence) 
the shoulder being that part of the body across which 
the shield was slung. The shoulder, therefore, means the 
shielder or shield-carrier. 

Collar— is the Anglo-Saxon ceolr (the c pronounced like k), and 
signifies the throat. Hence also the Latin collum, (neck). 

Finger— is the Anglo-Saxon feng, (took) the past tense of fon, 
(to take). The er is added to signify agency, and thus 
the word finger very appropriately signifies taker. 

Alouth--is the third person singular, indicative of the Moeso- 



WORDS AND THINGS. 35 

gothic matj 'an, Anglo- Saxon, metian, (to feed), and signifies 
that which feedeth the body. 

Tooth — Moesogothic, taujith, the third person singular indicative 
of taujan, Anglo-Saxon, teogan, (to tug), signifies that 
which tuggeth. 

Lid — The past participle of hlidan, (to cover), signifies covered — - 
that by which anything is covered. 

Street — Low German, strat, strate — Dutch, straat — Friesic, 
strete — German, strasse — Danish, stride — Swedish, strdt 
— Icelandic, strati — Breton, streat, stread — Welsh, 
ystrad, ystryd — Irish and Gaelic, sraid, sraide — French, 
estrade — Italian, strada — Spanish, Portuguese, estrada. 
All these are past participles of verbs cognate with stredan, 
(to strew). So in Latin, strata viarum, (streets), that is, 
those particular kinds of ways which are strata (strewed) 
with stones or gravel. Street therefore signifies a way 
which is strewed with stones, gravel, or other matters. 

Glass — Anglo-Saxon, glas (glass, <b pronounced broad). Glas, 
glis, gliz, were used in the middle age for to glitter. 
Glass, therefore, as well as the old German word, glas, 
(amber) means that which glitters. 

Smith — the third person singular indicative of smitan, (to smite), 
ic smite, (I smite), thu smitest, (thou smitest), he smiteth, 
smit, or smith, (he smiteth) — A smith, therefore, is one 
who smiteth. 

Wine — as brandy signifies a liquor obtained by the agency of 
fire, so wine signifies a liquor obtained by fermentation. 
"Wine — Low German, wien — Dutch, wyn — German, wein 
— Old German, uuin — Moesogothic, wein — Danish, viln — 
Swedish, win — Icelandic, vin — Welsh, Breton, gwin — 
Irish and Gaelic, Jion — French, vin — Italian and Spanish, 
vino — Portuguese, vinho — Slavonic, wino — Greek, oinos 
(probably pronounced woinos) — Persian, win — Latin, 
vinum — are all the offspring of one common stock — 
yayin, from the Hebrew obsolete verb yaayan, (to ferment) 
and signify a liquor obtained by fermenting the juice of 
grapes. 
Dr. Bos worth gives yayin, (wine), the expressed juice of the 



36 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

grape; from yanah [to press, to squeeze). But Professor 
Hurwitz, of the London University, an accomplished Hebrew 
scholar, does not think that yayin is at all allied to yanah, but 
that it has for its root the obselete verb yayan, (to ferment). 

Is not the meaning of every one of these words inherent in 
the word itself ? — inscribed, as it were, upon it ? Is there not 
a reason why each particular word was applied to each particular 
object ? 

B. 

But the meanings of these words are perfectly understood 
by every one, although it is certain that not one man in ten 
thousand, who uses them and hears them, is able to read the 
inscription upon them — that is, who understands their etymology 
— or sees or knows anything of the connexion which you have 
certainly shown to exist between the words and their meanings. 

A. 

Nor is it necessary with regard to such words as these. The 
names of objects which are daily falling under the notice of all, 
and which names they are daily hearing pronounced and applied 
to designate those objects, are established by universal consent, 
and kept in the memory by constant use. And if the meanings 
of all words were so established, and so understood universally, 
the absurdities of which I complain could never have existed. 
But at present I am only illustrating a principle— 1 shall apply 
that principle hereafter to words of greater importance, and 
whose meanings are not understood, although the words them- 
selves are in universal and daily use. My object at present is 
to show that there is no word, in any language, which has not a 
clear and definite meaning belonging to it — and that when it 
ceases to express this, its proper meaning, it ceases to have any 
meaning at all — except, as I have once before excepted, the 
names of such common objects as have been established by 
universal consent — but that even these have a meaning inherent 
in them which was the cause of their imposition — the cause of 
their having been selected to designate the things of which they 
are the signs. 

B. 

Hitherto you have only shown how one word has arisen out of 



WORDS AND THINGS. 37 

another — how, for instance, our word brown has arisen out of 
the old word signifying to burn — and you have shown the con- 
nexion which there is between the color which we call brown and 
the action which we call burning — the color brown, being the 
effect of the action burning. But whence comes the original 
word burn ? Whence come those primitive words, out of which 
all the others have arisen ? 

A. 

If the primitive words in all the languages in the world were 
collected, their number would be found to be extremely inconsid- 
erable, and merely the names of the commonest sensible objects. 
Yet even upon these, I have no doubt that the meanings also 
were originally inscribed. But of this I can offer you no other 
proof than that which is proffered by analogy. I have instanced 
several words, and I mean to instance many more, in order to 
show you that, in the formation of these words at least, there 
was nothing arbitrary. And I think, if a reason can be given 
for the formation and application of ninety-nine words, it is only 
fair to conclude that a reason does also exist for the formation 
and application of the hundredth, if we only knew where to find it. 

" La preuve connue d'un grand nombre de mots d'une espece, 
doit etablir un precept generale sur les autres mots de meme 
espece, a Porigine des quels on ne peut plus remonter. On doit 
en bonne logique juger des choses que Ton ne peut connoitre, 
par celles de meme espece qui sont bien connues ; en les ranie- 
nant a un principe dont ^evidence se fait appercevoir par tout ou 
la vue peut s'etendre." — M. de Brosses. 

B. 

But if the formation and application of particular names to 
particular things be not arbitrary, would it not necessarily follow 
that all languages would be alike ? 

A. 

No. Locke said so, but Locke did not understand the phi- 
losophy of language. If he had understood it he would not have 
written much that he has written. He would not have sought 
in the composition of ideas, that which can only be found in the 
composition of words. Had Home Tooke written before Locke, 
Locke would have written differently ; and if Locke had not 



38 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

written before Home Tooke, it is probable tbat Home Tooke 
would not bave written at all. For I think it is certain tbat 
Home Tooke derived bis first bints of his system of language 
from Locke's third book — on the imperfections of language, the 
use and abuse, and manner of signification of words. But with 
regard to your question, I say, no. For although I believe that 
every primitive word arose out of some accident or circumstance, 
or something or other which connected it with the thing signi- 
fied, yet it is by no means a necessity that this accident or 
circumstance should have been the same all over the world. 
But independently of this, it is by no means certain that there 
was not a time when there was but one language. At all events, 
it is almost certain that there was a time when there were not 
more than three or four languages. The multiplicity of 
languages through which some words can be traced, and shown 
to be the same — proves this, I think, beyond question. Thus 
the word mother can be readily traced through twelve languages. 
Sanscrit, mdtr German, mutter 

Persian, mddr Dutch, moeder 

Russian, mater Anglo-Saxon, modor 

Erse, mathair Danish and Swedish, moder 

Greek, meeteer Modern English, mother 

Latin, mater 

Sister through thirteen — ■ 
Sanscrit, swastri Swedish, syster 

Anglo-Saxon, swuster Icelandic, systir 

Low German, silster Russian, sestra 

Dutch, zuster Lettish, sessu 

German, schwester Finland, sisa 

Mcesogothic, swistar Modern English, sister 

Danish, soster 

Brother through nineteen — 
Sanscrit, bhrdtr Tartar, bruder 

Russian, brdtr German, bruder 

Welsh, brawd Mcesogothic, brothar 

Erse, brathair Anglo-Saxon, brothor 

Irish, brutha Dutch, broader 

Greek, phrateer Danish and Swedish, broder 



WORDS AND THINGS. 39 

Latin, frater Icelandic, brodur 

French, fretre,frere Armenian, breur 

Persian, brddr Modern English, brother 

Dr. Armstrong, in his Gaelic Dictionary, has traced the word 
sack through, I think, seventeen (or more) different languages ; 
and Sharon Turner has pursued the word father through more 
than five hundred: and shown it to be the same word in all. 
Numerous other instances may be seen in Dr. Prichard's 
Celtic Nations. 

As an instance of the uselessness of words when once they 
have lost their appropriate inherent meaning— as a proof that 
when they have lost that meaning, they may mean anything or 
nothing, and are therefore no longer capable of communicating 
ideas — let us examine the word wit. This word is a part of 
the Anglo-Saxon witan (to know), and signifies knowledge. But 
it has lost this its legitimate sense ; and now let us open Dr. 
Johnson's folio dictionary and see if we can ascertain its 
meaning there. Here it is. He says it means — 

1. The powers of the mind — the mental faculties — the 
intellects. 

2. Imagination. 

3. Sentiments produced by quickness of fancy. 

4. A man of fancy. 

5. A man of genius. 

6. Sense — judgment. 

7. In the plural, intellects not crazed. 

8. Contrivance — stratagem — power of expedients. 
Elsewhere he says it means, "a good thought well ex- 
pressed." 

A vast number of learned men have tried to find out what 
the word wit means, but they all differ from each other. Addison 
devoted several essays to the subject, but left both the word and 
its meaning just where he found it. He decided, however, 
what it did not mean — viz. neither acrostics, anagrams, chrono- 
grams, epigrams, nor puns. He might as well have told us 
that it does not signify either a Jack pudding, a corkscrew, or a 
cucumber. Dryden says, it means " propriety of words and 
sentiments." If this be what the word means, then Euclid's 



40 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

Elements of Mathematics must be the wittiest book in the 
world. Locke says, the word signifies " an assemblage of ideas, 
and putting those together with quickness and variety, wherein 
can be found any resemblance and congruity ; thereby to make 
a pleasant picture, and agreeable vision to the fancy." Pope 
says, it means 

" Nature to advantage drest, 
What oft was thought," but ne'er so well expressed." 

Sir "William Davenant says, it signifies different qualities in 
different persons. For instance: "in divines, humility, ex- 
emplariness, and moderation ; in statesmen, gravity, vigilance, 
benign complacency, secrecy, patience, dispatch ; in leaders of 
armies, valour, faithfulness, temperance, dexterity in punishing 
and rewarding, &c." " He might as well," says a writer in one 
of our periodicals, " have gone on thus :" " in tanners, the 
judicious dressing of a hide — in carpenters, adroitness in 
handling their tools — in cutlers, the careful tempering and 
sharpening of razors" — in sausage-makers, the honest stuffing 
of skins with wholesome pork, and not the flesh of half-starved 
cats. Swift says, 

" True wit is like the precious stone 

Dug from the Indian mine, 
"Which boasts two various powers in one, 

To cut as well as shine. 

Genius, like that, if polished right, 

With the same gift abounds ; 
Appears at once both keen and bright, 

And sparkles while it wounds." 

Well — now then — what is the meaning of the word wit ? 

B. 

I confess I am no wiser now than I was before, notwith- 
standing the laborious explanations of these learned authorities. 

A. 

No — how should you? Of the eight different meanings 
which Johnson has given, five are from one author. This 
author, therefore, uses the word in five different senses. Six 
other authors (those which I have just quoted) have given us 
six other different meanings. How can such a word be possibly 
understood ? How can it serve to communicate ideas ? How 



WORDS AND THINGS, 41 

can that be said properly to be the sign of anything at all which 
is used as the sign of fourteen things indifferently ? What 
claim can it have to be considered as an instrument of knowledge? 
On the contrary, must it not necessarily be an instrument of 
confusion? Suppose an admiral were to hoist a signal flag, 
which stood in the signal books as the sign of fourteen different 
orders, leaving every one of the captains of vessels to attach to 
it whichever of the fourteen he thought proper — could anything 
but confusion be the result ? 

B. 
But may not the meaning of a word be determined by the 

context ? 

» 

A. 
That is to say : might not the captains ascertain the parti- 
cular meaning (out of the fourteen) of the signal flag — that is 
to say, might they not ascertain the intentions of the admiral by 
reference to his previous orders — -to those which immediately 
preceded or succeeded the particular flag in question — and to his 
general character and conduct on such or similar occasions ? 
Why, certainly, if the captains could have time allowed them to 
sit down and consider for an hour or so before they obeyed the 
order, they might be able to form a shrewd guess, perhaps ; but 
even then I fear, they would not all guess right. But even if 
they all should happen to guess right, and if the execution of 
that order should chance to lead to any disastrous results, the 
admiral might shift the whole of the responsibility off his own 
shoulders upon those of the captains, by asserting that he had 
not meant, by the flag, that which the captains had understood 
by it — that he had meant some other of the fourteen significa- 
tions which stood opposite that particular flag in the signal 
books. No language can bind a man if it may be used in this 
loose manner. All responsibility must be at an end at this rate, 
and all language can be but a rope of sand, as far as it concerns 
human obligations. No man can be bound by what he says. 
And oh ! what a prolific source of fraud and crime has been 
this licentious use of words. It was of this that Queen Elizabeth 
is said to have availed herself, to cover her inhumanity in giving 
orders for the execution of the beautiful but unhappy Mary of 
Scotland^ e 



42 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

It cannot^ however, be said that the meaning of any word is 
determined by the context. For in these cases, the word whose 
meaning is said to be determined by the context, has no mean- 
ing at all. The meaning attributed to the word is not in the 
word, but in the context. It is the context which means — the 
word means nothing, and its place may be just as well supplied 

by a blank space or a dash thus . For instance ; " this piece 

of wood is so that it quite turns the edge of my knife." 

" I am so that I can hardly keep my eyes open." " The 

window is so from the ground, that it is no wonder she 

broke her leg in leaping from it." " This coffee is so that 

I can scarcely drink it without scalding my mouth.' 5 '' You may 
either leave these spaces blank, or fill them up with the word 
witty. In either case they will still be intelligible, because the 
sense is conveyed wholly by the context — or rather, you are left 
to guess at the meaning of the word left out ; and in these 
instances you may guess correctly, because there is but one 
meaning which can make sense of the whole. And the same 
meaning is still demanded, use what word you will. "This 
coffee is so witty that I can scarcely drink it without scalding 
my mouth." Dr. Johnson would tell you that here the word 
witty means very hot." " The weather is so witty that I can 
scarcely keep myself warm before the fire." Here the great 
lexicographer would tell us that witty means very cold. Thus 
the context may seem to make any word mean anything — even 
opposite extremes. But this is ridiculous. Every word must 
either have a meaning of its own, or none at all. 

But instances must perpetually occur, in which the context 
cannot possibly form a peg on which to hang the meaning of a 
Suppose Sir William Davenant had met a friend who 
attached to the word wit the meaning given it by Swift, and 
said to him that he had just parted with an extremely witty 
clergyman. His friend could not possibly understand what sort 
of man Sir William meant. For in his friend's mind the phrase 
" witty man" would have stood as the sign of one whose conver- 
sation could " cut as well as shine," and " sparkle while it 
wounded ;" whereas Sir William would have meant to indicate 
one whose conversation was remarkable for "humility and 



V/0RDS AND THINGS. 43 

moderation." This word wit, therefore, having lost its inherent 
meaning, and having now only an arbitrary one, is, in fact, for 
any useful purpose of speech, a mere idle breath, a bubble, a 
brutum fulmen, a nutshell without a kernel. Apply all this to 
other words of far greater importance, and you cannot fail to see 
how necessary to the dearest concerns of life is a clear knowledge 
and a proper and definite application of proper words to their 
proper meanings. Suppose this word were one, (and there are 
many in the like predicament ; for instance, the words insanity, 
right, wrong, good and bad) upon the proper and universal 
understanding of which the welfare of the state, and the happi- 
ness of man depended — must not confusion, hopeless and inex- 
tricable, necessarily result from its unsettled meaning? If 
those who make the laws, and those who are to obey the laws, 
understood the most important words in the language of the 
laws, differently, what other result can be expected than that 
which we see, every day, actually does result— universal dis- 
satisfaction, hostile interests, heart-burnings, threatenings, and 
every species of gall, wormwood and bitterness ? In this state 
of things, he who should definitely settle the true meaning of 
this word wit, would render a more acceptable service to his 
country, than if he should conquer a continent, and add its 
revenues to her treasury. 



CHAPTER V, 



CONNEXION BETWEEN WORDS AND THINGS CONTINUED. 

I remember, some few years ago, a man had shot another 
man's duck, and then carried it off. The proprietor of the duck 
brought an action against the thief for stealing his duck. But 
Lord Tenterden ruled that the action could not be maintained, 

e 2 



44 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

forasmuch as the witnesses proved that the man had stolen one 
thing, while the action was brought for having stolen another. 
The action was brought against the man for having stolen a 
duck — which is one thing — while the witnesses proved that he 
had only stolen a dead duck — which is another thing. The man 
killed the duck, and then stole the dead duck. The man should 
have been prosecuted, first, for having killed a duck, and secondly, 
for having stolen the dead duck. I remember perfectly that the 
witlings of the day — forgetting the " ne sutor ultra crepidam,^ 
let not the cooler go beyond his last— giggled at this most wise 
and just decision of that learned judge. 

Let us imagine a parallel case, and observe what must have 
been the consequence of an opposite decision. I live (let us 
suppose) next door to you. I know your horse and his qualities 
perfectly, being in the habit of seeing him every day, and having 
often admired his figure and action. Nay, I may have occa- 
sionally borrowed him, and both ridden and driven him myself, 
I meet you on a Monday mounted on this horse — I stop to 
speak with you — admire the fine health and condition of the 
animal, and finally offer to give you seventy guineas for him, 
which you refuse. On Tuesday morning, however, you come 
to my house, tell me you are suddenly and unexpectedly severely 
pressed for money, and that, if I be in the same mind, and can 
let you have the money immediately, you will take my offer for 
your horse. I count down the money, and, in the course of the 
day, send over my servant for the horse, who finds him dead, 
having hung himself in his halter during the night. I bring an 
action against you. It is tried by Lord Tenterden, who, having 
decided that a duck and a dead duck are one and the same thing, 
must also have decided that a horse and a dead horse are one and 
the same thing also — must have told me that I had got that 
which I had purchased, viz. a horse — and that I must abide by 
my bargain. There are few persons, I believe, who would con- 
sider such a decision a just one. Those who could not see that 
a duck and a dead duck are two different things, would see 
readily enough that there is a vast difference between a horse 
and a dead horse ; for if a horse and a dead horse be the same 
thing, they must, of necessity, be of the same value. Had I been 



WORDS AND THINGS. 45 

one of those who asserted that a dead duck and a duck are the 
same thing, I must also have agreed that a horse and a dead 
horse are the same thing. How, therefore, could I possibly he 
willing to give seventy guineas for the one, while I refused to 
give anything at all for the other, seeing that I had already 
agreed that they are both one and the same thing ? I must have 
been bound by my bargain, even by my own logic. But one 
would have supposed that there could have been no need of any 
argument to prove that a duck and a dead duck are two distinct 
things, it is so broadly manifest ; and even our common forms 
of speech acknowledge the difference. For if they be the same 
thing, why do we call them by different names ? What need is 
there to use the word dead at all, if it be not to point out a 
distinction ? But there can be no distinction between things 
which are identical ! Again, if a duck and a dead duck be the 
same thing, why can we not speak of killing a dead duck with 
the same propriety that we speak of killing a duck ? Again, is 
yonder bird which I see swimming in the pond a duck ? 

B. 
Yes. 

A. 
Is it a dead duck ? 

B. 
Certainly not. 

A. 
If that which is a duck be not a dead duck, I cannot conceive 
how a dead duck can be that which is a duck. For that is the 
same thing as though you were to say that a thing is that which 
it is not. For to affirm that white is not black, is the same as 
to affirm that black is not white. In both instances what you 
affirm is simply that the two things are not identical — and this 
affirmation remains the same whichever of the two terms you 
mention first — that is, whether you say that a duck is not a 
dead duck, or whether you reverse the proposition, and say that 
a dead duck is not a duck. It makes not the slightest difference 
in the nature of the affirmation whether I say, " a man is not a 
horse," or " a horse is not a man" — in both instances I merely 
affirm that there is a difference between a horse and a man. 



46 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

Wherever it can be affirmed that A is not B, it can also, and 
with equal truth, be affirmed that B is not A. If, therefore, it 
can be affirmed (as you have just seen it can be) that a duck is 
not a dead duck, it can also with equal truth be affirmed that a 
dead duck is not a duck. 

Things which have different attributes cannot be the same. 
Duck is a name given to a thing endowed with certain attributes, 
amongst which is the power of voluntary motion. Has a dead 
duck the attribute of voluntary motion ? If you were describing 
a duck to a person who had never seen or heard of a duck before, 
amongst other things, if you described it truly, you would be 
compelled to tell him that it was a bird which could both swim 
on water, and fly through the air. But a dead duck can do 
neither of these things. How, in the name of common sense, 
can those things be identical of which the same thing cannot be 
affirmed ? 

And it is the same with words. A word which has lost its 
attribute of communicating ideas has no longer any title to be 
called a word. It is an empty sound — an " insignificant noise" 
— a dead duck ; and he who uses such words does not speak— 
he merely " makes a noise/'' 

B. 

There is a very important word, intimately connected with the 
subject under consideration, to which you have made no allusion, 
I mean the word knowledge. 

A. 

I have as yet nothing to do with important words, We have 
not yet arrived at the proper place for discussing them. I am 
at present only endeavouring to point out to you the great im- 
portance of words in general, considered as the instruments of 
knowledge, and also as the causes of human strife, and of a 
large portion of human misery. The silly prejudice (and as 
mischievous as silly) that the study of the nature of words is of no 
consequence, is so deeply rooted that it will require infinite care 
and pains, and reiteration of proofs, to remove it. If, in attempt- 
ing this, I have advanced nothing which is new, or if I have 
dwelt too long on some parts of the subject, or have too often 
reiterated the same thing, I have only followed the example of 



WORDS AND THINGS. 47 

a greater than I. " If," says Mr. Locke, " thou findest little in 
it new or instructive to thee, thou art not to blame me for it. 
It was not meant for those who have already mastered this sub- 
ject." And again, "I shall frankly avow that I have sometimes 
dwelt long upon the same argument, and expressed it different 
ways, with a quite different design. I pretend not to publish 
this essay for the information of men of large thoughts and 
quick apprehension. To such masters of knowledge I profess 
myself a scholar." And again, " Some objects need be turned 
on every side ; and when the notion is new, as I confess some 
of these are to me, or out of the ordinary road, as I suspect they 
will appear to others, 'tis not one simple view of it that will gain 
it admittance into every understanding, or fix it there with a 
clear and lasting impression. There are few^ I believe, who have 
not observed in themselves or others, that what, in one way of 
proposing, was very obscure, another way of expressing it has 
made very clear and intelligible ; though afterward the mind 
found little difference in the phrases, and wondered why one 
failed to be understood more than the other. But every thing 
does not hit alike upon every man's imagination." This, there- 
fore, is not the proper place for discussing the meaning of the 
word knowledge. But you are right. It is an important word, 
and one which must be carefully considered by and bye. But 
I shall only now stop to observe, that the relation which subsists 
between words and that which we call knowledge, is the same as 
that which exists between the figures in a merchant's ledger and 
the money which they represent. As no merchant can acquire 
much wealth without paying very accurate attention to figures, 
so neither can a man acquire much knowledge without paying 
very accurate attention to words. In the world of knowledge a 
word is what a bank-note is in the commercial world. A word 
is a bill of exchange payable on demand, not in gold, but in 
knowledge. "When the holder of a bill payable on demand 
chooses, he has a right to apply to the acceptor of the bill for 
its value in gold; and whenever a man chooses, he has a right to 
apply to him who addresses him in words for their value in 
knowledge. If he to whom he thus applies cannot give him 
value for his words in knowledge, he is precisely in the same 



48 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

situation as he who, on being applied to, cannot give value for 
his bill in gold. 

And again, as a bank-note or bill is but waste paper of no 
earthly use or significance, unless the amount of gold which it 
represents be fixed, and engraven on the note itself, so that all 
men can understand it alike ; so words are, in like manner, but 
wasted breath of no earthly use or significance, unless the 
amount of knowledge which they represent be also fixed, and, as 
it were, engraven on the words themselves, so that all men may 
understand it, and estimate it alike. If the value of a note be 
not fixed- — if one man may estimate it at one value, and another 
at another — if the value of the note be not legibly expressed on 
the face of it— if the value be arbitrary — then it is perfectly 
manifest, that such a note is of no value at all as a medium of 
exchange in the commercial world, and an instrument for the 
acquisition of wealth — and the acquisition of wealth is to the 
commercial world what the acquisition of knowledge is to the 
philosophical world, viz. the one grand object of pursuit. And 
bank-notes in the one, and words in the other, are merely 
instruments for the achievement of these two great objects. 
And so if words have not their value in knowledge engraved upon 
them, so that all men may understand it and estimate it alike — 
if their value in knowledge be arbitrary— then it is equally clear 
that, like the notes just mentioned, they possess no value at all, 
and can no longer be employed as instruments in the acquisition 
of knowledge. They are of less value than the creaking of a 
door upon its hinge, for that informs you that the hinge requires 
greasing ; whereas such words inform you of nothing — save the 
folly or knavery of him who uses them. But as you cannot tell 
of which of these two they are the sign, you are still left totally 
in the dark. 

But, although notes, whose value is uncertain, cannot be used 
fairly and legitimately as a medium of exchange amongst 
honorable men in the commercial world, they may still be 
palmed upon the ignorant and unwary by cunning swindlers, 
and thus become the instruments of extensive plunder. And in 
the world of moral, political, and legal knowledge, precisely the 
same thing is true of words whose meaning is uncertain, and the 



WORDS AND THINGS. 49 

plunder of which they are thus, by sharp-witted knavery, made 
the instruments, is the most important of all species of plunder 
— for it is the plunder of human happiness. 

Such and so intimate, therefore, is the connexion between 
words and any large amount of knowledge, that the one is 
imperiously necessary to the existence of the other. Without 
words, a man could possess no more knowledge than his dog. 
It is speech which defines the difference between the knowledge 
of brutes and men ; since it is the want of words which limits 
the knowledge of the former, and the possession of an illimitable 
abundance of words which renders man's knowledge almost 
illimitable also. 

Let us suppose, for example, that some one man possesses 
twelve ideas, and no more. You may make it twelve millions 
if you like. But let us, for convenience of calculation, say 
twelve ideas, and no more. He associates with fifty other men, 
each also possessing twelve other and different ideas. These 
fifty other men, by means of words, communicate each his 
twelve ideas to this man, who thus becomes the possessor of 
six hundred and twelve ideas, or portions of knowledge, instead 
of his original number of twelve. And this astonishing increase 
of knowledge may be accomplished in an hour or two. But in 
a herd of elephants, mark the difference. An elephant, which 
has been transported from his native jungle, and carried about 
as a spectacle, acquires numerous new ideas. He acquires ideas 
of crowds of people presenting different appearances, the voice, 
and various intonations of his keeper, the den in which he is 
confined, his bath, &c. &c. But if this elephant be replaced in 
the herd from which he was withdrawn, he can convey none of 
his new ideas to the rest of the herd; and whatever was the 
number of ideas which each individual wild elephant originally 
possessed, they must still, all of them, die possessed of exactly 
that same number, and no more. And this happens solely 
because the tame elephant wants the faculty of speech. He 
cannot tell his companions what he has seen. 

B. 

You have put all this ingeniously, at least, and I think forcibly 
too, and although I am not yet prepared to say that I either 



50 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

agree with you, or disagree with you, having never before 
bestowed a single thought upon the subject, yet you have said 
enough certainly to induce me to think upon these tfyings, and I 
am already conscious of some new trains of thought arising 
from what you have advanced, which may ultimately lead 
perhaps to things not hitherto " dreamed of in my philosophy," 
and which might never have arisen but for this conversation. 

A. 
That is all I expect, hope, or wish. I expect no man to pin 
his faith upon my sleeve. A man who does this is unworthy 
the name of a reasonable being. He is a mere automaton- — 
who thinks (if he may be said to think at all) with another 
man's brains, and who speaks with another man's tongue — a 
mere machine, moved by another man's energies — and he ought 
to be condemned to eat with another man's mouth. He is not 
one jot superior to the donkey which he drives in the same 
manner as he himself is driven by another. The reader has no 
concern whatever with the writer, nor the hearer with the 
speaker. His whole and sole concern is with what is said or 
written, and he must judge of the truth of what is said or 
written by virtue solely of his own reason. If a man write 
against drunkenness, and, in order to show its evil influence on 
the health of man, describe minutely the anatomy of all the 
organs of the body, the nature of life, the several actions which 
the several organs are destined to perform in the human 
economy, and then prove that the effect of intoxicating drinks 
is to alter the structure of these organs — is necessarily hostile 
to the nature of life — has a manifest tendency to alter and 
disorder the healthy actions of all the organs — if he do all this, 
and the reader's reason acknowledge that it is so, what does it 
signify though the writer should be known to get beastly drunk 
every day of his life ? This cannot alter the truth of what he 
has written. It is not the man who writes or teaches — he is 
but an interpreter — it is nature herself who speaks, and teaches 
the doctrine that drunkenness is hostile to health. It is 
anatomy which teaches this — it is physiology which teaches 
this — it is the nature of life which teaches this — the writer 
himself is but the- interpreter of their language, and it does not 



WORDS AND THINGS. 51 

matter one straw to the value of the doctrine taught, whether 
the writer be a drunkard or not a drunkard. If I read a book 
and become a convert to its doctrines, it is because my reason 
approves them. What know I or care I about the author ? If 
I be convinced, it is my'own reason which has convinced me. 
The author has written certain things. I measure them by the 
standard of my own reason, and receive them or reject them 
accordingly. If it were afterward proved that they were written 
by an idiot or a madman, what then ? That which is consonant 
with reason and the nature of things cannot be made otherwise 
by any earthly means. The pain which I feel from a blow on 
my shin is the same, whether that blow be inflicted by a fool or 
a philosopher. The knowledge which enlightens my mind is 
the same, come from what source it may. Many excellent 
moral treatises have been written by men of highly immoral 
character — poor Colton to wit. The wisdom they teach does 
not become folly because they who taught it were fools ! Could 
it be proved that Euclid was stark-staring mad when he wrote 
his elements of mathematics, their truth would still remain 
unshaken. But there are men who, having pinned their faith 
upon the sleeves of one or two favourite authors, never exercise 
their own reason afterward, but judge of the truth of everything 
accordingly as it tallies or not with their doctrines. They do 
not say, "is such and such a thing true?" But they say, 
" does it agree with what I have been taught by such and such 
a one V 3 These people do not want to discover the truth. They 
are only in search of pillows to bolster up preconceived opinions 
— no matter whether they be right or wrong, for that is a 
question which they never ask. Such men are less worthy than 
the beast of the field. For the beast does not reason much, 
because he cannot — but they, because they will not. They 
insult their Creator by despising his best gift. They are 
dishonest stewards, for they do not employ to advantage the 
talents of gold wherewith they are entrusted. They are like the 
Hindu devotees who voluntarily shut their eyes, and keep them 
closed till they die. When I am talking, therefore, imagine it 
is a post which speaks, or a dog that barks — only listen, and 
think for yourself. I pretend to do no more than offer you food 
for thought. 



52 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

B. 

I was about to observe, that I think you might have carried 
your parallel between words and bank-notes one step farther. 
For as bank-notes are only valuable for the amount of gold 
which they represent, so gold also is of little value but for the 
things which it also represents — viz. the things which are 
purchaseable by gold. And as words are only useful for the 
ideas which they represent, so also are ideas only valuable for 
the things of which they are the symbols. 

A. 

No. The parallel will not hold beyond the point to which I 
have carried it. Eor though gold is, by general consent, made 
to represent things, yet it does not necessarily so. There is no 
necessary connexion between gold and things purchaseable by 
gold, and it might exist without being made the symbol of 
anything, and doubtless at one time did so exist. But there is 
a necessary connexion between ideas and the things of which 
they are the symbols, and ideas can no more exist without the 
things or sensations which they represent, than a shadow can 
exist without a substance; and precisely the same relation 
which exists between shadow and substance, exists also between 
ideas and the things or sensations of which they are the symbols, 
viz. the relation of cause and effect. To suppose that ideas can 
exist independent of things or sensations, is precisely the same 
as to suppose that an effect can exist without a cause, a shadow 
without a substance, a creation without a Creator. And this 
brings me to another method of illustrating the relation between 
words and ideas. 

Did you ever look into a penny peep-show ? 

B. 

Very often. 

A. 

Bid you observe that on that side on which the exhibitor 
stands there were several little cords passing through holes 
in the wood-work, and hanging down, in a row, on the 
outside ? 

B. 

Oh ! yes-— I understand the mechanism. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 53 

A. 

Very well. When you first apply your eye to the glass and 
look through it into the interior, you see nothing. Presently 
the man pulls the first cord, and you see a picture, which may 
contain a single figure only, or several. Presently that picture 
vanishes, and another cord is pulled, and another picture appears. 
And so on to the number of a dozen probably. The man 
always allows you what he considers, I suppose, a reasonable 
time to dwell on each representation. But suppose he were to 
pull the cords one after the other with very great rapidity indeed, 
you would not be able to have a distinct view of any one of 
them. You would be only just sensible that a succession of 
pictures had past before you, but you would not comprehend 
any of them. If he were to pull the cords with the rapidity of 
lightning, or, which is still more rapid, the velocity of thought, 
then you would see no more than if he had not pulled them at 
all — that is, nothing. And if you really wished to examine and 
ascertain what the pictures were about, you would be compelled 
to request the man to pull one cord only at a time, and allow 
you sufficient leisure to contemplate one picture before he pulled 
another cord. Now I say that the human mind is a penny peep- 
show — that words are the cords — and that ideas are the pictures 
which display themselves in obedience to the power of those 
words. The mind is a stage, having numberless little shadowy 
actors concealed behind the scenes. And words are little magic 
spells, each word having power over one or more of these little 
phantasms, and the moment a word is uttered, that particular 
phantasm, or group of phantasms, over which that particular 
word exercises its power, comes from behind the scenes and 
exhibits itself on the stage. This, then, is the office of words — 
to call from their lurking places behind the scenes, certain of 
these phantasms, and cause them to exhibit themselves upon the 
stage; and words which have not this power are only idle 
sounds. They are broken spells. 

Thus, when an ancient Greek pronounced the word hippos, 
that sound instantly acted like a spell upon the idea of a horse, 
which was already present (behind the scenes) in the mind of 
his Greek hearer, and caused it to issue from its lurking place, 



54 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

and present itself on the stage, and so become visible, as it were, 
to bis mental eye. But if be spoke to an English bearer, tbe 
spell would be broken — tbe charm would have lost its power — 
none of the ideas in his hearer's mind would obey the call. Or 
if any did (for they stand like " gray -hounds in the slip," always 
on the watch and ready for a start, and are sometimes, in their 
eagerness, apt to start forward at the slightest sound and before 
it is fully uttered, and therefore before they can know, as it were, 
which particular idea is called for) — I say if any did present 
themselves on the stage of the English hearer's mind at the 
utterance of the word hippos, they would be almost certain to be 
the wrong ones, and would instantly retreat again to their hiding 
places. It will be observed from all this that we do not, pro- 
perly speaking, convey our ideas to others. A man does not, 
and cannot, take an idea out of his own mind and put it into 
another man's. He merely pronounces a spell, which has the 
power to conjure from its secret chamber in the mind of another 
man, an idea already there. If it be not there already, no possi- 
ble power of language can put it there. And this is extremely 
important, and must be remembered. 

Now to make this illustration as simple and clear as possible, 
let us suppose that there are concealed behind the scenes of the 
stage of your mind seven groups of ideas, and let lis farther 
imagine that they are numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Let. us also 
suppose that there are behind the scenes in my mind six groups 
numbered also in the same way, so that group no, 1 in my 
mind is the exact counterpart of group no. 1 in your mind; and 
so on. Now when I am conversing with you, let us imagine that 
group no. 1 is exhibiting itself on the stage of my mind, and I 
desire to cause its counterpart to exhibit itself on the stage of 
your mind. All I have to do is to pronounce the words no. 1, 
and the group no. 1 instantly appears on the stage of your 
mind, and thus we two are contemplating the same group of 
ideas, or, in other words, we clearly understand each other. 
But now suppose that our several groups of ideas are numbered 
differently. Suppose that group which I have numbered no. 1, 
you have numbered no. 2. And what I call no. 2, you call 
no. 1. Now let us again suppose that group no. 1 is present to 



WORDS AND THINGS. 55 

my mind, and I wish to cause its counterpart to be present to 
your mind. As before, I pronounce the words no. 1, and 
there instantly exhibits itself on the stage of your mind, not no. 1, 
but no. 2, because the group which I have taught to answer to the 
sounds no. 1, you have taught to answer to the sounds no. 2 ; and 
consequently we do not understand each other, for we are not 
contemplating the same group of ideas. You are looking at, 
and speaking about no. 2, while I am looking at, and speaking 
of no. 1. But not knowing that we have numbered our several 
groups differently, we still fancy that we are both contemplating 
the same group. Is it to be wondered at, if we quarrel ? Is 
it to be wondered at if we both conceive very unfavourable and 
mistaken notions of each other's character and conduct ? And 
again, if there be present to your mind no. 7, and you wish to 
cause its counterpart to be present in my mind, you would 
pronounce the words no. 7. But there being only six groups 
in my mind, you may bawl till you are hoarse, you cannot, in 
that manner, cause it to become visible to me, because in my 
mind it has no existence. How then am I to acquire that group 
of ideas ? We shall come to that by and bye. 

B. 

But what are these little phantoms? Are they material 
beings, or are they — 

A. 

There is a proper time for all things, and this is not the 
proper time to answer that question. To proceed : from all 
this it follows, that unless all men call their ideas by the same 
names, it is impossible for them to converse together understand- 
ingly, and without bickerings, and misconceptions of each 
other's characters and conduct. It also sets, I think, in a 
clear point of view, the true nature and use of words. It will 
be manifest also, from this, that not only must each group be 
called by the same name by all men, but also that each group 
must be made up of the same single ideas, in all men. For if 
one of the ideas composing group no. 1 in my mind, be 
different from all those composing group no. 1 in yours, this 
difference will be quite sufficient to cause misunderstandings and 
bickerings among us, 



56 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

I have chosen here to speak of ideas in groups, rather than 
of single ideas, or rather, I should say of separate ideas, because 
an isolated idea hardly ever presents itself to the mind entirely 
unaccompanied by others. The force of association, as it is 
called, (a most important thing in the economy of human 
nature) will intrude others in spite of us. In fact there is 
scarcely such a thing as a separate idea. We call the idea of 
a horse a single idea — but it is no such thing — it is a group of 
many ideas — and the group is made up of the separate ideas of 
trunk and extremities, head, tail, mane, hoofs, &c. &c. — and it 
is manifest that each of these is also a group. The ideas com- 
posing what we call the idea of the head are the separate ideas 
of eyes, mouth, ears, jaws, hairs, lips, &c. &c. But this is so 
manifest it is not necessary to dwell upon it, at least not here. 
Thus if— 

B. 

Still harping upon the same string ! It seems to me that 
you are laboring this point tediously and unnecessarily. Why 
dwell so long and so wordily upon that which I never doubted ? 
No one can question that, unless men call things by the same 
name, they cannot understand each other ! If when you say a 
horse you mean a windmill, and when you say cow you mean a 
cucumber, it requires no argument to prove that you will not be 
understood. 

A. 

And yet this is what men are doing every day. When one 
man uses the word right, he means exactly what his neighbour 
would designate by the word wrong ! And so inveterate is 
this habit of daily using words without reflecting for a moment 
whether the hearer understands the word in the same sense in 
which it is used by the speaker — that, I say, it is almost 
impossible to dwell upon it, and its mischiefs, too long. It is 
not so easy a matter to break through an old habit, nor to 
convince a man of the folly of any action which he has been 
accustomed to perform every hour in the day all his life. You 
cannot drive a nail into a post at one stroke ! You must 
hammer away in the same place for a considerable time if you 
would drive it home, and fix it irremovably. In nineteen cases 



WORDS AND THINGS. 57 

out of twenty, if you clearly prove a man's conduct wrong or 
foolish, he will assent to all you say — then think no more about 
it— and the next hour repeat it. It is not sufficient to set up 
the truth where all men may see it. It must be forced upon 
their observation. It must be placed before their faces, and 
their eye-lids held open, as it were, until the new impression of 
the truth has obliterated the old impression of error, and thus a 
new habit has been formed. 

B. 

In what you have just said of ideas, you have only spoken of 
such as are derived through the medium of our sense of sight. 
But surely there — 

A. 

Do not interrupt me here. I promise you that I will 
provide for all sorts of ideas in due time. But if you would 
have me speak intelligibly and explain myself cleaily, you must 
give me time. For the present, at least, I desire you to take it 
for granted, that whatever seems irreconcilable with the truth 
will be fully and clearly explained in its proper place. If I fail 
eventually to do this, it will be then time enough to call me to 
an account, and treat me accordingly. But if you perpetually 
interrupt me with questions out of their place, this conversation 
may last longer than I can spare time to devote to it. In the 
mean time, if anything appear to you to require explanation, or 
seem in opposition to the truth, make a note of it. 

B. 

Pardon me one moment while I ask you an irrelevant 
question. It can be answered in a monosyllable, and therefore 
will not detain you long. What are your political principles ? 
Are you a reformer ? 

A. 

However simple this question seems, and although I am 
sincerely anxious to answer you at once monosyllabically , aye or 
no, yet I honestly declare to you that I am unable to do so. 
Because, although I attach to the word reform a clear and 
definite meaning in my own mind, I am almost certain that the 
same meaning is not attached to it in yours. And thus, if I 
were to answer aye, and afterward were to vote for a tory 

E 



58 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

member of parliament — or if I were to answer no, and afterward 
vote for a whig member, in either case you would say, when you 
heard of it, that I had either belied my principles, or altered 
them, or else voted in opposition to them ; and thus vilify and 
blacken my political character unjustly. For in either case my 
profession of principles and my subsequent vote might be 
perfectly honest and consistent. In my mind, to reform 
means to make or form over again, and nothing more. Thus, in 
my mind, the tory who alters whig laws, and the whig who 
alters tory laws are equally reformers. And when I hear of the 
reformation of abuses, I understand that abuses have received, 
or are about to receive, or it is desired that they should receive, 
another and a different form. 

B. 
Oh ! but the word reform does not simply mean alteration. 

A. 
But I say it does. 

B. 
It means something more than this. 

A. 
Let us know wherein that something more consists. 

B. 
Whatever be the intrinsic, etymological meaning, it is univer- 
sally used to express alteration for the better. 

A. 
Be it so. But this only shifts the difficulty from one word to 
another. I desire to know the meaning of the word better. 

B. 
Is not this mere quibbling ? 

A. 
For pity's sake spare me that wretched plea of the ignorant— 
that miserable " refuge for the destitute" in argument. Your 
very question, " is it not quibbling" ? convicts you of ignorance. 
For if you had a clear idea of the meaning of the word better 
you would have answered me at once, without stopping to ask 
whether or not I am quibbling. But you asked me that foolish 
question simply because you did not know the meaning of the 
word better, and was ashamed to confess it. You asked me 



WORDS AND THINGS. 59 

that question, because you could not answer mine — because you 
felt puzzled— and because you were unwilling to believe that 
you had been using a word all your life without knowing what 
it means. There are many who resort to this plea. No sooner 
do you attempt to compel them to talk intelligibly — no sooner 
do you request them to give you a clear definition of the 
meaning of the words they use — than they stop you with : " sir, 
this is mere quibbling \" Such talkers are only fit to discuss 
with their wives the mysteries of the manufacture of a pudding 
or a pie-crust. Nay, not for this. For it is owing to the 
want of this same precision, which they call quibbling, that such 
hosts of cookery books have been laid on the shelf as utterly 
useless. They directed us to take a pinch of this, and a pinch 
of that, and a handful of the other — to " give it a simmer/' and 
"just give it a boil." But as a pinch may be taken with two 
fingers as well as one — and as the quantity called a handful must 
vary according to the size of the cook's hand — these books 
became entirely useless. But if you were to ask one of these 
latitudinarian talkers what he meant by a pinch, he would tell 
you : " sir, you are quibbling." I believe it was Dr. Kitchener 
who, in his Cook's Oracle, first resorted to the quibbling expe- 
dients of scales and weights ; and by virtue of which quibbling 
he contrived to render his book intelligible and useful. " Two 
straight lines cannot include a space" is a mathematical axiom. 
Now suppose you were to discover to-morrow some means of 
drawing two straight lines, so as that they could and did include 
a space, although that space were no larger than the point of a 
needle. If you asserted and proved that you had done this, 
these men would say : ' ' sir you are only splitting a hair," or 
" sir, you are quibbling." But what would mathematicians say 
to it ? Why they would instantly blot the axiom from their 
books as unconditionally false ; and were you to prove the next 
week, that two straight lines might be drawn so as to contain a 
space equal to a square yard, the axiom would not be one jot 
more completely falsified than it had been by your first discovery. 
There are no degrees in truth. Whatever is not perfectly true 
is perfectly false. And now, once more I desire to know the 
meaning of the word better. 

¥2 



60 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

B. 

Why, I might say that it is the comparative of good and well. 
But then you would be asking me the meaning of good and 
well. 

A. 

Undoubtedly I should. And I should also ask you how it 
can be called the comparative of either good or well in the 
following sentence : " yesterday my cough was very had, but 
to-day it is better." Here it seems to be the comparative of 
had! and instead of meaning more than good, as it must do 
when used as the comparative of good, it only means less than 
very had I or not quite so bad as very bad ! But I suppose that 
every degree of cough is bad, and therefore I say that, in the 
above sentence, better is the comparative of bad, (if had can have 
a comparative) since it indicates one of the degrees in the severity 
of a cough, each of which is more or less bad when compared 
with another. 

B. 

Well, then, I must take a more circuitous route in order to 
convey to you what I understand by the word better. It seems 
to me to indicate progression from the fixed point perfectly bad, 
towards the fixed point perfectly good. The moment a thing 
ceases to be perfectly bad it becomes a little better, and the 
farther it recedes from that fixed point (perfectly bad) and 
approaches toward the other fixed point perfectly good, it becomes 
better and better, until it has become perfection. For if you 
use the word as the comparative of good, and say : " Mr. T 
has a good horse, but Mr. G has a better," still both the word 
good and the word better do but indicate different degrees on the 
scale between ivorst and best. For they are both better than 
the worst, and not so good as the best — best being the superlative 
of better. 

A. 

And thus Mr. H may have a very " good horse," but not so 
good as Mr. T"s; and Mr. B may have a very u good horse" 
though not so good as Mr. FPs. For there can be no compara- 
tive without a positive. And consequently, if better be the 
comparative of good, then, wherever the phrase " better horse" 



WORDS AND THINGS. 61 

can be used with propriety — that is, wherever I can truly say 
that my horse is better than yours, although even my horse be 
not worth two straws, still yours must be good, since mine is 
better, and better is the comparative of good — that is to say, 
mine is the comparative better, of which yours is the positive, 
good. Thus good and bad are made to signify the same thing, 
being applied to the same object. And again, if I possess the very 
best of all possible horses, and you possess a horse only one 
degree worse than mine, my very best of all possible horses 
becomes, nevertheless, a bad horse, since the worse (that is, 
yours) is the comparative of bad (that is, mine) — since yours is 
comparatively worse, mine is positively bad. That is to say, 
mine is the positive of your comparative. Thus bad and best 
are made to signify the same thing. But, although my best of 
all possible horses is thus proved to be positively bad, it is 
nevertheless better than yours — and thus becomes, at one and 
the same time, bad, better, and best, 

B. 

This seems a strange jumble, certainly. I cannot refute it on 
the instant, and yet I can by no means agree with it. 

A. 

No — you cannot refute it because it is the necessary conse- 
quence of your own definition of better ; and you cannot agree 
with it because you cannot throw off a deeply-rooted habit, and 
a long cherished and hitherto unquestioned opinion. 

B. 

But we are in the daily habit of using this word, and that too 
in such a manner as to make ourselves perfectly understood. 

A. 

Yes — in ordinary conversation, where the meanings of ivords 
can be at once settled, for the time being, by reference to things; 
this word, and many others which are in the like predicament, 
do very well as they are commonly used. In common conver- 
sation on common sensible objects, anything serves for a word. 
If you wish me to put more coals on the fire, you have only first 
to look at me, then point to the fire, and finally nod towards the 
coal-scuttle, and I understand you. But looking, and pointing, 
and nodding, cannot always be resorted to ; if they could there 



62 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

would be but little disputing* in the world. In ordinary conver- 
sation it is not necessary to " speak by the card/' but in mat- 
ters of philosophy it is. 

Now let us see to what your definition of the word better will 
lead us — always taking care to remember that the definition is 
your own — not mine. We are speaking of the word, you know, 
in this instance, as it is used in the phrase alteration for the 
better, which, you say, is the sense in which the word reform is 
generally used. And you say that the state of the laws — the 
government of the country — has been made better, whenever any 
alteration has brought it one or more degrees nearer to the fixed 
point perfectly good — or, if you will, to the fixed point good as 



B, 

Yes. 

A. 

Be good enough, before we proceed further, to inform me 
where this fixed point perfectly good, or, good as possible, lies. 
I mean, show me that particular point in the gradual im- 
provement of the system of government, having reached which, 
all alteration must necessarily be for the worse. 

B. 

That would be an exceedingly difficult thing to do, if not an 
impossible. 

A. 

I think I have never told you that I am something of a 
sculptor, and sometimes amuse myself with chipping marble. 
Those specimens which you see on that shelf are the work of 
my hands. You observe they are of all sorts, sizes, and devices. 
There is a Psyche, a head of Shakspeare, an urn, an inkstand, a 
Tarn o'Shanter, and Souter John, a sleeping Venus, and many 
others. But this block of marble which I have some time been 
carefully rough-hewing is to be my chef-d'ceuvre. But I am 
almost afraid to touch it, for I fear it is scarcely large enough 
for my purpose, and I scarcely know how to make the most of it. 
You see here is an ugly stain at this corner which runs quite 
through the block, and I should like, if possible, to cut it away. 
But if I do so, I am afraid it will render the block too small for 



WORDS AND THINGS. 63 

the execution of my design. What do you think ? Would it 
be large enough without it ? Do you think I had better venture? 
I believe too I ought to make this excavation a little deeper ; 
ought I not ? And this projection here — would it be better to 
remove it or let it remain ? I assure you I am greatly interested 
in this little work, and shall be really obliged to you if you will 
give me your attention, and then your opinion as to whether I 
had better make these alterations or not. What are you laugh- 
ing at ? 

B. 

I am laughing at the idea of your consulting me as to the 
best manner of hewing your block of marble, but wholly for- 
getting to tell me what shape it is ultimately to assume. What 
is it to be ? — a man or a brute ? — an urn or an inkstand ? 
When I know what it is to be, I may perhaps be able to advise 
you. 

A. 

Oh ! I cry you mercy. I did not know that was at all 
necessary. I want to make it a perfect something — no matter 
what — and I wish to know whether these alterations which I 
propose will be alterations for the better or not — that is, whether 
they will bring this block nearer in shape to that something 
than it is at present. 

B. 

How can I possibly tell that without knowing what that 
something is ? It may be, for aught that I can tell, already as 
near as possible to the shape designed, and therefore every 
further alteration may only make it more unlike. 

A. 

Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur. If you cannot tell 
me whether certain alterations in the shape of this block of 
marble will, or will not, bring it nearer to that state or appear- 
ance which is the fixed point at which I aim, without knowing 
what that point is, how can you tell whether certain political 
alterations be or be not for the better — that is, do or do not 
bring the condition of the country nearer that fixed point of 
perfection, or, good as possible, without knowing where that 
point lies, which you have just said " is an exceedingly difficult 



64 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

thing to know, if not an impossible" ? Reform, you say, signi- 
fies alteration for the better, and tetter indicates an advance 
toward perfection ; but if you do not know in what perfection 
consists, bow can you tell wbetber any advance bas been made 
toward it or not, by tbose alterations wbicb you call alterations 
for the better ? Not knowing in wbat perfection exists, it can 
only be matter of doubtful opinion as to which is the path which 
conducts to it. And thus an alteration which in one man's 
opinion leads toward perfection, in the opinion of another, leads 
in a directly opposite direction, so that these two men would 
apply the opposite terms of better and worse, to one and the same 
thing. How then is a third party to know what is the meaning 
of either of these words ? To that to which one man applies the 
term better, another applies the term worse. Have then these two 
words the same meaning ? I am, as it were, a third party — - 
an indifferent spectator of the conduct of men. I hear great 
numbers of people applying the word better to a particular set 
of political measures : and I hear great numbers of men apply- 
ing the same word better to a class of measures diametrically 
opposite to these. How then can you call it quibbling, when I 
ask you the meaning of the word ? You say it means approxi- 
mation towards a given point. Very w 7 ell — tell me where this 
point is — show it to me — and then I shall know the meaning of 
the word better — that is, I shall know where to apply it properly, 
and also when it is properly applied by others. If a traveller, 
meeting me at the junction of four roads, should ask me which 
of the four roads he had better take, and if I should direct him 
to take this or that particular road, without first enquiring to 
what particular town or part of the country he desired to pro- 
ceed, without knowing whether the object of his journey lay in 
the east, west, north, or south, I should be guilty of only the 
same folly of which they are guilty, who apply the word better to 
alterations in the social and political condition, without knowing 
what or where that condition is to which these alterations for the 
better are intended to approximate it. 

B. 
But you will remember that I also said the word better indi- 
cates recession from bad, as well as approach toward perfection. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 65 

And as perfection is directly opposed to bad, whatever recedes 
from bad necessarily approaches more nearly to perfection ; and 
although it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to say what condition 
of society would approach most nearly to perfectly good, there 
can be no difficulty in pointing out what condition is perfectly 
bad. 

A. 
Is this indeed so easy ? Tell me what condition that is. 

B. 
One of utter barbarism. 

A. 
How do you know ? 

B, 
How do I know ! why you certainly do not mean to deny that 
a civilized and highly cultivated state of society is preferable to 
one of ignorant barbarism ! 

A. 
Whenever a man does not give a plain answer to a plain 
question, I always suspect that the reason is simply because he 
cannot. In the meantime I deny nothing, and affirm nothing. 
You say, a highly cultivated state of society is better than a 
barbarous one. Very well — I do not deny it. And I am sure 
I myself prefer it. I merely wish you to show your reasons for 
so saying — the means by which you have arrived at that 
conclusion — the standard by which your judgment on this point 
has been decided. You seem to think this a strange and 
unnecessary question. And if you had heard Sir Isaac Newton 
ask himself the question : ' ' Why does an apple fall downward 
when it is severed from the tree ? Why does it not fall 
upward?" you would have thought this, too, a very foolish 
question. But this habit of taking it for granted that we 
know all about a thing only because we have never doubted it, 
and never heard it doubted or questioned, is one of the most 
prolific sources of ignorance. Long before Sir Isaac Newton 
asked himself this question, I dare say there was not an old 
woman in the kingdom who would not have felt herself offended 
had she been asked, why an apple did not fall upward. Had 
you asked her that question, she would have answered you by 



66 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

repeating it with an air of surprise, just as you have but now 
answered me; and just as people always do answer, whenever 
they find themselves unexpectedly puzzled on a subject, with 
which they fancied themselves so thoroughly familiar as never to 
dream of questioning themselves about it. The old woman 
would have said : " Why does not an apple fall upward ! ! why, 
whoever heard of an apple falling upward ? You don't mean 
to say that an apple can fall upward ! How can you ask so 
foolish a question V 3 That is precisely the way in which the 
old woman would have answered the question. But you are 
not an old woman, and therefore that is not the way in which I 
expect you to answer my questions. 

If I be not mistaken, Rousseau was, at least, one who did not 
consider a state of barbarism to be so very bad. 

B. 
But Rousseau, you know, was little better than a madman. 

A. 
What certain proof can you offer that you and I are not mad 
at this moment — madder than he ? The madman does not 
believe himself to be any more mad than you or I. What 
certain proof have you that it was not Rousseau, but that it is 
we who are mad ? My own most grave and deliberate opinion 
- — an opinion which is the result of much reflection — is that, on 
certain points, both you and I are mad — that by very far the 
greatest number of individuals composing adult society, are 
really and truly mad. But to prosecute this subject here 
would be to pervert the order of my argument. This nut — 
this word mad — will fall to be cracked in its proper place, when 
we will carefully examine its kernel, and endeavour to ascertain 
and settle its true meaning. 

One would suppose there could be no better judges on this 
subject than the barbarians themselves. But go ask them. 
Go, pluck the Arab from his steed of a hundred sires, and ask 
him which he prefers — his own wild and barbarous life, or ours. 
But deal honestly with him. Tell him how we live — or rather, 
bring him hither and let him see. Take him first to the tailor's 
shop — show him a dozen men sitting neck and heels together 
on a board, sewing cloth from morning till night all the year 



WORDS AND THINGS. 67 

round, and say to him, " this is the way in which one class of 
civilized men, consisting of many thousands, pass their lives." 
Take him to the shoemaker's shop, and show him a dozen men 
sitting on a stool from morning till night, all the year round, 
bending over a stone which lies upon their knees, sewing 
leather, and say to him, " this is the way in which another class 
of civilized men, consisting of many thousands, pass their lives." 
Take him to the engineer's workshops, and show him five or 
six hundred men, besmeared with smoke and perspiration, and 
toiling from morning till night, all the year round, filing, and 
heating, and melting, and moulding, and hammering iron, and 
say to him, "this is the manner in which another class of 
civilized men,, also consisting of many thousands, pass their 
lives." Take him to the workshops of Mr. Cubitt and Mr. 
Seddon, and show him eight or ten hundred men arranged, 
rank and file, beside long rows of wooden benches, sawing, and 
planing, and chiselling wood, from morning till night, all the 
year round, and say to him, " this is the way in which another 
class of civilized men, also consisting of many thousands, pass 
their lives." Take him to the various shop-keepers, and show 
him hundreds of thin, pale, cadaverous, young men and women, 
standing from morning till night, all the year round, behind 
certain long tables, called counters, in long, dusky shops, 
lighted and heated, and smoked with numberless gas-lights, and 
say to the wild Arab, " this is the way in which another class of 
civilized men, also consisting of many thousands, pass their 
lives." Take him to the factories, and show him thousands of 
little half-naked children, imprisoned all day, and toiling from 
morning till night, all the year round, with bent limbs, and 
thoughtful, anxious, care-worn looks, and say to the barbarian, 
"this is the way in which another class of civilized men and 
women, also consisting of many thousands, pass their childhood 
— that season of thoughtless ease and frolic fan." Take him 
to the haunts of the pale and spectral silk-weaver, show him 
two or three men and women, shut up in a room, twelve feet 
square, for sixteen hours a day, all the year round, toiling with 
both hands and feet at once, and say to him, " this is the way 
in which another class of civilized men and women pass their 



Ob CONNEXION BETWEEN 

lives." Take him to the coal mines in the north, and the 
quicksilver mines, and the lead mines, and show him a number 
of strange demon-like looking figures, emerging by hundreds 
out of the bowels of the earth, within which they toil from 
morning till night, all the year round, breathing unwholesome 
damps, and poisoned vapours, and every now and then a dozen 
or so blown out of the world by an explosion, or buried beneath 
falling masses of earth, and say to the uncivilized stranger, 
"this is the way in which another class of your civilized 
brothers, also consisting of many thousands, pass their lives." 
Take him into the country, and show him the agricultural 
labourers, some ploughing, some sowing, some reaping, some 
mowing, some thrashing in the barn, but all toiling from 
morning till night, all the year round, in order to keep them- 
selves from starving, and say to the uncultivated savage, "this 
is the way in which another class of civilized men pass their 
lives." Take him to the halls and salons of our wealthy 
Magnates and our proud nobility, and show him three hundred 
people crammed into rooms, not too large for fifty, respiring 
for hours the breath that has been already breathed two or three 
times over, some elbowing their way through the crowd by way 
of walking, some seated round a table, throwing backward and 
forward certain little bits of painted paper, called cards, and 
some jumping up and down, according to certain prescribed 
figures, which they call dancing, and somebody else calls 
the poetry of motion, (which latter phrase, not being English, 
nor any other language which I happen to understand, 
I cannot of course translate) — show the vulgarian Arab all 
this, and say, "this is the way in which another class of 
civilized men and women, also consisting of some thousands, 
pass their lives." Take him to the seats of learning, the 
universities, and show him men, shut up in little dark rooms, 
poring over books full of strange marks and devices, from 
morning till night, and say to him, " this is the way in which 
another class of civilized men pass their lives." Take him to 
the dispensing rooms of our medical men, and to the shops of 
our druggists, and say to him, " this the way in which another 
class of civilized men, also consisting of many thousands, pass 



WORDS AND THINGS. 69 

their lives — viz. in compounding drugs to cure the diseases 
which are incidental to every class, and every age, sort, and 
denomination of civilized men, women, and children." Take 
him to our hospitals, and show him thousands of beds, every 
bed containing a victim of disease — take him to our prisons 
and our prison-ships, and our penal colonies, and say to him, 
"this is the way in which another class of civilized men, 
consisting of hundreds of thousands, are doomed to pass a 
portion, at least, of their lives." Take him to the graves of the 
buried dead, and show him heaps upon heaps of mouldering 
bones, and say to him, " these are the remains of another class 
of civilized men — -strangled for a crime peculiar to civilized 
states — the crime of forgery." Take him to the field of 
Waterloo — to the valleys and hills of Spain — to the green fields 
of Ireland- — to the heaths of Scotland — to the ditches and way- 
sides between France and Eussia — to the spot where once 
Moscow stood ; take him to the broad plains of the East, where 
civilization was earliest known, to the country of the Jews — 
plough up the soil, and say to the barbarian, " this soil — the 
soil of these civilized countries — has been enriched by the blood 
of another class of civilized men — fattened by the dead bodies of 
millions upon millions of civilized men, who butchered each 
other honorably and gloriously, not by dozens, after the manner 
of barbarians, but by tens and twenties of thousands, after the 
manner of civilized men, and who died triumphantly, and whose 
names are enrolled as the names of heros in all the histories of 
all the civilized nations of the earth." Take him, in short, 
everywhere, and show him a fair sample of the manner in which 
all the great classes of civilized men pass their lives ; and then 
invite him to exchange his barren desert for the fat soil of 
fertile England, and I will wage my life against a pin's head, 
that he will angrily demand of you to " give him back his Arab 
steed," and having mounted which, will hie him back to the 
desert as though he were flying from plague, pestilence, and 
famine. 

Fire and sword, gunpowder and the blood-hound, the 
arguments authorised by a civilized pope, to be used in order to 
civilize the American Indian, could not compel him to exchange 



70 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

his barbarous condition for the condition of civilized men. 
He chose rather to be exterminated — he and all his tribe. 

He — the barbarian himself — will tell you, therefore, that his 
own condition, so far from being perfectly bad) is infinitely 
better than yours. Here, then, are two opinions concerning* 
this word bad. You say it is a right use of the word to apply 
it to a barbarous condition of society. The Arab tells us that it 
is only then properly applied, when used to designate a highly 
cultivated condition. Which is right ? Where is to be found 
the umpire, unprejudiced, belonging himself to neither party, 
who is competent to decide between you ? Each considers his 
own state, habits, and manners the best — which only means 
that he likes them best. Each erects his own likings and 
dislikings into a pattern by which he expects all the rest of the 
world to model theirs. "Vade mecum" is in every man's 
mouth — whom shall we trust ? " Sic itur ad astra" is on 
every man's tongue — whom shall we follow ? 

Thus it is that the consideration of words conducts to the 
consideration of things. These words have no meaning at all 
as at present used — they are merely expressive of ever-changing 
opinion. Thus, what is called good in one country, is called 
bad in another — what is good in one country in one age, is bad 
in the same country in another age. A few years since, in our 
own country, it was good or right to hang men for forgery — 
now it is bad or wrong to do so. For ages it has been thought 
right to hang men for murder — there are many now who declare 
it to be wrong. But as man, in all essentials, is everywhere 
the same, good and bad, right and wrong, with reference to him, 
cannot be peculiar to any age or country, but must be universal 
and immutable, like the nature of the being to whose conduct 
they are applied, and like the laws of that nature which he 
derives from his Creator. Such words are destitute, therefore, 
of the power of words, and can never become instruments of 
knowledge, but by a reference to the standard of things. These 
words are words of comparison, but there can be no useful 
comparison of things without a standard whereby to com- 
pare and measure them. Weights and measures are compa- 
rative things, but of what use would these be without a 



WORDS AND THINGS. 71 

standard whereby to regulate and compare them. One man's 
pound would be another man's ounce, and the foot of one 
would be another's inch. This indispensible standard of right 
and wrong, good and bad, must be sought for, and can only be 
found, in the laws of God— engraven as they are on the impe- 
rishable monument of his works, and in a language equally and 
unmistakeably intelligible to all the nations of the earth. 
" Conjectures and theories of men will always be found very 
unlike/' says the Rev. Dr. Thos. Reid, "the creatures of God. 
If we would know the works of God, we must consult them- 
selves with attention and humility, without daring to add any- 
thing of ours to what they declare. A just interpretation of 
nature is the only sound and orthodox philosophy : whatever we 
add of our own is apocryphal and of no authority." — An enquiry 
into the human Mind on the principles of common sense. But 
this is not the proper place to discuss this part of my subject. 
We shall come to it by and bye. 

B. 

What in the world does the word better mean then? For 
according to your previous assertions every word has its own 
appropriate meaning — this, therefore, amongst others — and I 
confess myself quite at a loss. 

A. 

I believe it is only a different and more ancient way of spelling 
our wor&beater — i. e., striker, smiter — one who does or can strike, 
smite, or beat another. The word was anciently written bett or 
bet, out of which the Anglo-Saxons formed their verb bet an, to 
make amends. Now the Mcesogothic hot signified amends, 
reparation, or compensation for injury done : out of which word 
the Moesogoths made their verb botan, to make amends, or com- 
pensation for injury done. And as the Anglo-Saxon verb betan, 
and the Mcesogothic botan have the same signification, so I sup- 
pose the words from which they were formed had also the same 
signification. I believe, therefore, that the Anglo-Saxon bet is 
no other than this same Mcesogothic bot, differently spelled 
because differently pronounced by different northern tribes, and 
signifies compensation or amends. Our word better is still fre- 
quently pronounced by the lower orders in some of the provinces, 



72 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

batter, butter, and hotter; and if they bad occasion to write 
the word, they would write it as they pronounce it. But 
I believe the word betan, to make amends, is the same word as 
beatan, to beat; since to beat a man who has done you an injury, 
is, in fact, to make yourself amends for that injury. If this is 
not the fashion now-a-days, it certainly was with our ancestors. 
But we still say, " I will have satisfaction — or I have taken 
satisfaction — or I will give him satisfaction" — meaning, " I will 
fight him — or have fought him."" In this mode of speaking, 
the two phrases, to fight, and to take satisfaction, i. e. compen- 
sation or amends for an injury, are used synonymously, and both 
have the same meaning. As the Anglo-Saxons used one word 
(beatan) to signify both to beat, and to take compensation, in like 
manner we use the modern word punish. When we mean, 
" I will beat you," we frequently say, " I will punish you." 
But punish comes to us through the Latin punio, from the 
Greek poinao, which signifies to take compensation. The third 
person singular of beatan is bet, he beats. The third person 
singular of betan is also bet, he makes amends. I conceive, 
therefore, that these two verbs are the same, and both signify to 
beat. Now, the Anglo-Saxon word beater e signifies a champion 
— one who is ready and thought to be able to beat all comers. 
Our word better is identical with this word beatere, and signi- 
fies what we should now express by the word beater, that is, one 
who does or can beat, thrash, overcome, others. We still use 
the word beat as expressive of superior excellence. And we 
mean the same thing whether we say, " my horse is Letter 
than yours" — or "my horse can beat yours" — or "my horse 
is the beater of yours," that is, the better of the two. We 
use other words of the same kind in the same manner ; " I 
can thrash you at chess" — " I received a terrible thrashing 
at billiards last night"— and the Americans say, "America 
flogs the world." All these words, thus used, signify to over- 
come, to conquer. 

Our word excellent has a similar origin in another language ; 
it comes to us from the Latin excellens, which signifies excel- 
lent (which is, in fact, the same word, with an English termina- 
tion). But the word excellens is only the present participle of 



WORDS AND THINGS. 73 

the verb excello, which signifies to beat, or strike ; and our verb 
to excel, being only the same word as the Latin excello, with an 
English termination, signifies properly, therefore, to beat, to 
strike. So that an excellent man — 'that is, one who excels — 
properly signifies one who heats, or is able, or thought able, to 
beat or thrash most other men. And, per contra, one who beats, 
or can, or is thought able, to beat ov thrash most other men, is 
an excellent man — that is, one who excels, or is better (as we say) 
than other men. And when we recollect what is the true mean- 
of the word good, it will be very manifest why the word better, 
that is, beater, was used for what we call the compurati/ve of that 
same word good. Good, anciently written gode, more anciently 
still, god, goth, guth, and gud, signifies strength, vigor, warlike 
energy, activity, and prowess. The Greek word which answers 
to our word good is agathos, which also, in its primitive 
sense, signifies energy, activity, strength. Indeed it seems to be 
the same word as guth, having only a prefix and suffix. For, 
take away the prefix a and we have gathos ; and by removing 
the suffix os, we have gath, which is unquestionably the same 
word as the Anglo-Saxon guth, and signifies strength in war. 
So also the word which, in Greek, bears the same relation to 
agathos, which the English word better bears to the word good, 
is areion ; and the Greek word which answers to our word best 
is aristos. But both these words are derived from other words 
which denote warlike strength. It is to be remembered also 
that the only quality considered by our Anglo-Saxon ancestors 
as worthy of admiration was physical strength. Since, therefore, 
the phrase good man really means only a strong man, it is a very 
proper and analogous use of language to designate a still stronger 
man than he by the word beater — thereby signifying one who is 
stronger, and therefore who is able to beat him, to thrash him. 
The words good and better are used in the present day by the 
vulgar precisely in these senses. It is very common to hear 
such expressions as these following, pass between men who are 
quarrelling, and who are disposed to settle their differences by 
fighting: "I am as good a man as you whenever you like to 
try" — meaning, " as strong a man." "I am a better man than 
you any day in the week" — meaning, "I am able to thrash you 

G 



74 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

any day in the week." We have an old English proverb too in 
which this word good is nsed in its proper sense of strong: "as 
good as George of Green" — meaning as strong, this George of 
Green being the famous Pindar of Wakefield, who fought with 
Robin Hood and Little John, and beat them both — -thus proving 
himself the better, that is, stronger, man. 

Having thus reduced the word good to a determinate mean- 
ing, the meaning of the word better becomes manifest enough. 
For if a good man be a strong man, then a better is one who 
can beat or thrash him. And if this be doubted, it can be 
easily settled by experiment. But if I say, " I am a better man 
than you" — using the word, as it is ordinarily used, as the com- 
parative of good — how is it possible for me to prove it ? How 
is it possible even that I should be understood ? since the word 
good is used not only by different nations, but by different 
people of the same counties, to express different things ? But 
personal strength is a standard which can be resorted to in every 
corner of the globe. The words good and better, therefore, if used 
in their true and legitimate sense, can cause no lasting dispute. 
But I call all the civilized nations of the earth to witness that 
these words, and their equivalents, used as they have been and 
still are, only to designate opinion — opinion, that moral chame- 
lion — have caused a million times more human bloodshed, more 
widely-spreading, root-and-branch desolation, more pitiless, 
inhuman and murderous cruelty, than all the vicious propensities 
of poor backbitten human nature, in her very rudest condition, 
put together. Truly have they, in the language of our mother 
tongue, "Cwealm-dreone swealh thes middan-geard." — Ccsdmon. 

It is easy to see how the word better, first applied only to 
denote superior personal strength, became afterwards figuratively 
used to designate superiority of every kind among other things. 
As for instance, " my house is better than yours •" that is, ' c my 
house excels, that is, beats yours in magnitude, value," &c. &c. 

B. 

But you say this extraordinary word better was anciently 
written bet or bett. How did it acquire the last syllable er ? 

A. 

You know that we call him who supplies us with milk, a milk- 



WORDS AND THINGS. 75 

man, and him who supplies us with butter, a butter-maw ; him 
who rows us across the ferry, a ferry -man, or water-maw; him who 
keeps an oil shop we call an oil-maw, and him who brings food 
for the cat, a cat's-meat-maw, and her who washes our clothes, a 
washer- woman. The Anglo-Saxon word wer, sometimes written 
were, signifies a man, and they used it in the same way. Some- 
times they put it before the word to which they joined it, and then 
they preserved the w, as were-wulf, a man-wolf — wer-h&d, man- 
hood. — wer-gyld, maw-money, that is, the fine for slaying a man 
— wer-lic, manlike, or mawly. Sometimes they put it after the 
word as we do, and then they dropped the w, as pleg-ere, a 
play-maw, or player — ssed-ere, a sow-man, or sower — wvit-ere, a 
writ-maw, or writer — beat-ere, a heat-man, or beater, that is, a 
man who is able, or thought to be able, to beat other men — a 
champion. We frequently drop the w in the middle of a word 
in the same manner. Thus we do not say answer, but an-ser, 
when we pronounce the word answer. Nor when we pronounce 
the word Warwick, do we say War- wick, but War-rick. Our an- 
cestors dropped the w in the same way, and as they spelled as 
they pronounced, they also dropped it in their writings. Thus 
the word bett, he beats, became bett-wer, and finally, dropping 
the w, as we do in the word answer, it became bett-er, better, 
that is, a bett-mdin, or a man who can bett or beat others. So 
much for the word better — I have cracked this one nut some- 
what out of place, before dinner as it were, by way of sample. 

B. 

Well, you have got over that difficulty better than I antici- 
pated. That is to say, you have regulated the meanings of 
these two words by the standard of the admiral's book, as you 
call it. But how is the admiral's book itself regulated ? What 
was the standard by which the admiral's book was itself formed, 
and by which we are to measure the propriety of the meanings 
therein annexed to words ? You will not, I suppose, allow even 
the admiral himself to use arbitrary signals ? 

A. 

Certainly not. When the admiral was engaged in forming 
his booh of signals he took for his sole guide and standard the 
book of nature. Words must be the names or signs of some- 

g2 



76 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

thing or other. But where are we to look for that something if 
it do not exist in rerum natura— if it be not to be found in the 
nature of things? No word can be used as an instrument of 
knowledge which cannot be traced to its origin, either in the 
internal world of man's sensations, or the external world of 
things. The primeval inventors of words were acquainted with 
nothing which was not contained within one or other of these two 
worlds, and could not have invented names for things which, for 
them, had no existence^ It is thus, therefore, that the study of 
words, if we would speak intelligibly, and shut the door against 
endless and bootless disputation, forces us to the consideration 
of things— since there can be no end to disputes without some 
standard or arbiter which may be referred to, and since the nature 
of things is the only possible standard which is at once 
unchangeable, infallible, and impartial. It is the office of the 
admiral's book, therefore, to assign to each word the idea of 
which that ivord is the sign. And it is the book of nature into 
which we must look for the thing of which that idea is the sign. 
While such words as good, right, justice, insanity, are used 
without reference to some impartial and immutable standard by 
which to measure and settle their meaning, they must ever be a 
source of interminable disputes and the bitterest hostilities. 
But having once erected a standard whose infallibility none can 
deny, such disputes and hostilities must necessarily cease. 
While the word good continues to be used without reference to 
such a standard, it will continue to be, as for ages it has been, a 
prolific source of dissension, even to the extent of bloodshed. 
But let the word be used in the sense which alone belongs to 
it, and there can be no dispute about it. Would two men, think 
you, quarrelling about who was the stronger man be able to 
enlist the people of an entire empire in their cause, and set 
whole nations together by the ears ? No ! The people would 
say to them : " if you want to know which is the stronger, stand 
up and try. We have no time to listen to your idle brawls, 
which concern only yourselves, not us." And if they refused 
to do this, they would be left to the sole enjoyment of their own 
bickerings, and the peace of the rest would be undisturbed. 
But I do not wish you to give it this sense of strong which 



WORDS AND THINGS. 77 

is attached to it in the admiral's book, if you do not like it. 
I do not care what meaning you give it. Only when you furnish 
a meaning, let it be a possible meaning, and at the same time 
furnish us with a rule, in lieu of the admiral's book, by which 
all men may know what the meaning is — a rule which shall 
render possible the universal adoption of the same meaning, so 
as to preclude dispute, 

B. 

If I understand you rightly, you say that there is no important 
word which is not the sign of one or more ideas or sensations, 
excepting only such words as are the signs of other words. 

A. 

Important words ! I say that there is no word which is not 
the sign of one or more ideas. For even those words which are 
the signs of other words may very properly be said to be the 
signs of all the ideas of which those other words would have 
been the sign if used. When an Englishman reads Greek and 
meets with the word andres, that word, to him, is the sign of 
his own word men. But this is only because he is not suffi- 
ciently accustomed to the use of Greek words to refer each Greek 
word at once to the idea which it represents ; and he only gets 
at the idea through the medium of an equivalent word in his own 
tongue. But, in reality, the word andres is as much the sign of 
the ideas represented by our word men, as is the word men itself. 
It is the same with short-hand. The single mark which, in 
some systems of short-hand, stands for the word man, may just 
as well be said to stand for the idea of man. There is great 
similarity between the language of highly civilized nations and 
short-hand. The former, like the latter, is a system of abbre- 
viations for expedition's sake, in which one word is made to 
stand for several, or if you like it better, for all the ideas sig- 
nified by several words. This indeed has been the great cause 
of the misapplication of words, as I believe I have before said. 

B. 

Then you mean gravely to assert that such words as by, in, 
out, but, to, from, till, the, that, and, an, a, as well as such words 
as justice, insanity, mad, right, perfect, truth, &c. have all a 
distinct and positive meaning, appreciable according to the 
nature of things ? 



78 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

A. 
I do — and not only the words, but also every letter even of 
which those words are composed. 

B. 
You certainly excite my curiosity ; and I am sure I shall be 
amused, whether I be convinced or not. So go on. 

A. 
But before I arrive at this part of my subject I have much to 
do. And I confess I am surprised that, all this time, you have 
never yet once asked me what I mean by the word meaning ! 
This is a proof of the inveteracy of habit, and of the truth of 
what I have before said, viz., that one cannot drive a nail into 
a post at one blow. We have been talking almost of nothing 
else but the meanings of words, and of the uncertainty of the 
meanings which are annexed to them, and yet you have never 
once asked me the meaning of this same most important word 
meaning ! — -the very pivot on which the whole of my argument 
turns — the very hinge on which it hangs ! 

B. 
Upon my life it is very droll — but it never once occurred 
to me. 

A. 
Occurred to you ! No— I know that. And this is the way 
men talk and listen every hour of their lives — in using, and 
hearing, and replying to words without paying the slightest 
attention to what those words mean. Surely it was truly said 
of such men, they " do but gabble like things most brutish." 

B. 
But by the word meaning you intend the sense in which a 
word is to be understood. 

A. 
Ay — there it is. I ask you to give me gold for my paper, 
and you only give me another piece of paper. I ask you to give 
me a thing for my word, and you only give me another word. 
But when I ask you to cash my paper, I don't want more paper, 
but that which is represented by paper, viz. gold. And when 
I ask you to cash my words, I don't want more words, but that 
which is represented by words, viz., things. This is quite in the 



WORDS AND THINGS. 79 

style of Dr. Samuel Johnson, who tells you that right means not 
wrong, and that wrong means not right — that sinister means not 
dexter, and dexter means not sinister. There can be no more 
certain proof of the gross ignorance which prevails through 
society, of the nature and use of language, and consequently of 
the nature and use of their mother tongue, than the great 
applause which was awarded to Dr. S. Johnson for his dictionary. 
One looks in vain into this work for the meanings of words. 
He only tells you how certain authors used them instead of other 
words. Thus, if any modern popular author chose to use the 
word cucumber as a substitute for cow's tail, some future Samuel 
Johnson would tell his readers that sometimes the word cucumber 
signifies a cow's tail. " It must be confessed/' says the learned 
and acute author of the JZirea irrepoevra, il that his (Johnson's) 
Grammar, and History and Dictionary of what he calls the 
English language, are in all respects (except the bulk of the 
latter) most truly contemptible performances ; and a reproach to 
the learning and industry of a nation which could receive them 
with the slightest approbation. Nearly one third of this 
dictionary is as much the language of the Hottentots as of the 
English ; and it would be no difficult matter so to translate any 
one of the plainest and most popular numbers of the Spectator 
into the language of that dictionary, that no mere Englishman, 
though well read in his own language, would be able to com- 
prehend one sentence of it." This is perfectly true. The book, 
as a standard work, is a disgrace to the country ; and a new 
dictionary is most imperatively called for. 

B. 

"What then do you mean by the word meaning ? 

A. 

Be patient. You can only learn the meaning of the word 
meaning from the consideration of the nature of ideas, and their 
connexion with things. 

B. 

You have put me on my guard now. I therefore desire to be 
informed at once what is the meaning of the word idea. 

A. 

Dr. Samuel Johnson says it means mental imagination. 



80 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

Had the doctor two imaginations, then, that he found it neces- 
sary to distinguish the word imagination by the word mental ? 
But let us consult the admiral's book. Let us see how we 
come by this word, and by whom, and for what purpose, it was 
first made. It is purely a Greek word, every letter of it, letter 
for letter — idea in Greek, idea in Latin, idea in English. We 
have not naturalized this word, as we generally do, by altering 
its termination, but we have borrowed it, whole and entire, just 
as it is, from the Greek. But how came the Greeks by it ? 
Thus, They had a very good word signifying to see. It was 
eido, sometimes written ido, and sometimes eideo, pronounced in 
English ido or ideo. They had also a general term significative 
of all the various matters which make up the sum of the 
universe. It was chrema, a word equivalent with our word 
thing. But most of these chremata — these things, at least those 
with which the Greeks were acquainted, can be recognised by 
the sense of feeling as well as by that of sight. Eor instance, 
we can see a horse, but then we can feel him also. The word 
horse conveys to the mind not only the figure of a horse, but 
many other attributes which belong to a horse — weight and 
substance (as we call them) amongst the number. But the 
Greeks, when they began to philosophise, wanted a word, that 
is, a name for what they could see and see only — a name for 
that which they could see, but could neither feel, hear, taste, 
nor smell. They wanted a name for the shape, figure, or 
appearance of a thing wholly irrespective of its substance, 
weight, or solidity. When I look at the wall of this room, I do 
not see the wall, because the wall is covered with plaster and 
hidden from my view. Neither do I see the plaster, because 
the plaster is covered with paper. But I do not see the paper, 
for it is covered with what we call color. But color does not 
reside in the paper, it resides in the rays of light which are 
reflected from the paper ; and when you take the light away, I 
see nothing at all. The light — the differently colored rays of 
light, blended together so as to form every possible shade of 
what we call color — is all that we can see— is all that ever has 
been seen since the creation of the world. We ascertain the 
existence of material things solely by our sense of feeling. The 



WOEDS AND THINGS 81 

eye does not give us one iota of information on the subject. 
But I can hardly expect you to understand this just yet, for I 
am perfectly certain that you do not know the meaning of that 
commonest of all words, the word thing. I should think you 
must have used this word thing some hundreds of times every 
day for the last forty years, and yet, I say, I am certain that you 
do not know its meaning, and probably never thought of asking 
yourself whether it have any meaning at all. * And yet it has an 
excellent meanings of its own, as every word must have. Neither 
do you know the meaning of the words matter and existence, 
and I cannot stop just now to explain them. Still I think a 
little reflection may convince you that we really see nothing but 
light. If you remove the light you can see nothing — everything 
in the room seems to have vanished — they may be still there or 
they may not — you know nothing about the matter — the chairs 
and tables are to you as though they had never been. You 
remember that they were in the room before the light was 
excluded, and your reason assures you that they could not have 
been removed without detection by your other senses — your 
hearing, for instance. But for all that your eyes can tell you 
about the matter, they may have every one of them been 
removed. "When the light is restored, its rays strike against 
every object, and are reflected from every point of each object 
back again to your eyes, and form minute pictures of them on 
that part of your eyes called the retina. This retina is a little 
looking-glass, in which your brain perceives the pictures of 
surrounding objects, just as you perceive the picture of your face 
in your shaving-glass. The reason why objects appear to you 
of their natural size, notwithstanding the minuteness of the 
pictures drawn on the retina of the eye, you may easily learn 
by referring to any work on optics. What enables us to 
distinguish one object from another is then variety of color. 
One object possesses the property of reflecting, that is, sending 
back to the eye only those particular rays which, being blended 
together, form the color which we call brown — as, for instance, a 
mahogany chair — and of absorbing all the other rays. Another 
object, as, for instance, the wall against which that mahogany 
chair stands, has the property of returning to the eye only those 



82 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

rays of light whose blended colors form what we call French 
gray. This difference of color enables us to distinguish the 
chair from the wall. But if both chair and wall were of exactly 
the same color, and if the light fell upon them everywhere alike 
so as to form no shadow, then the chair would seem to resolve 
itself into the wall, and we could not distinguish it from the 
wall, and could not know that there was a chair there. We 
could no more see the chair than we could see a drawing made 
on paper, which paper was of exactly the same color with the 
materials used in making the drawing. If you make a perfectly 
black mark on a piece of perfectly black paper, with a piece of 
perfectly black chalk, can you see it ? Certainly not. But the 
mark is there nevertheless. This proves incontestibly that what 
we see are merely differently colored rays of light. 

I have in my study a table made of common deal wood. But 
it is veneered with a veneering of mahogany, about one sixteenth 
of an inch in thickness. Now it is manifest, that in looking at 
this deal table, you can only see the mahogany veneering. 
Now, imagine this veneering to be in thickness only the 
hundredth part of an inch — -or thousanth— or millionth— or ten 
millionth — it is equally manifest that you could still see only 
the veneering, and not the deal table which is beneath it. 
You may continue to diminish the thickness of the veneering, 
in your mind, until it really has no more substance than has a 
ray of light. Still it is equally manifest that you can see the 
veneering, and nothing but the veneering, however thin it may 
be. Very well — this is precisely the case with every object in 
nature. Everything is veneered with a veneering — -not of 
mahogany — but of colored light. And it is this veneering, and 
nothing but this veneering, which we see. If you ask me, how 
I know this? in the words of Locke, I "send you to your 
senses to be informed." Go and try. Remove this veneering 
—that is, exclude every particle of light, and then tell me what 
you can see. Literally, positively, and absolutely nothing— no 
more than you could if nothing really existed. It is true, 
when you have removed the veneering of mahogany you can see 
the deal table. But that is because, when you have removed 
the veneering of mahogany, you have made room for and 



WORDS AND THINGS. 83 

admitted the veneering of light. But now treat the veneering 
of light as you treated the veneering of mahogany — that is, 
remove it — remove the light — -and what has become of your 
table ? It is gone. It has vanished. You cannot see it. Nor 
have you any possible means of knowing whether it be really 
gone, or whether it be still there, but by testimony — the 
testimony of another sense— the sense of feeling. There is a 
curtain of colored light hanging before every object in creation 
which conceals all things from our vision. We can see the 
curtain, but if we attempt to raise it in order to peep behind it, 
behold ! all things have vanished, and we can see nothing at alL 
Or it would be more analogous to say, that every object in 
nature is wrapt up in a garment of colored light which accurately 
fits it at every point ; and that, when this garment is removed, 
we can see nothing. You would be ready to swear that you see 
yonder marble bust of Napoleon. But if, unknown to you, 
some cunning artizan were to envelope it entirely in a fine 
marbled paper, the exact counterpart, in all appearance, to the 
real marble which you now suppose you see, you would be 
equally ready to swear that you saw the marble. Whereas it is 
evident, in that case, you would only see its garment of paper — • 
just as, in reality, you now only see its garment of light. The 
things which make up the universe never have been and never 
will be seen. We can see nothing but light. But we can feel 
them. It is our feeling and memory which prevent us from 
breaking our faces against posts. I could never know that a 
post could hurt me, or obstruct my path, if I had not felt it, or 
something like it, and recollected it. 

As colored light, therefore, is all that I can see, and as this is 
not a substance, commonly so called, and cannot offer any 
resistance to a moving body, I should not know but that I could 
walk through that wall just as easily as I can walk through the 
shadow of a house, or of a tree, if it were not for the information 
which I have derived from my other sense, viz. of feeling. For 
all the information to the contrary which my eyes can give me, 
I could just as easily and safely walk through a stone wall, or 
upon the surface of still water, as I could through a cloud of 
smoke or upon the surface of a sheet of ice. My eyes can and 



84 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

do tell me nothing to the contrary. For we cannot see either 
weight, substance, solidity, or resistance. We can only learn to 
understand these from the sense of feeling. All that we can 
see is figure, shape, extension, &c, although experience always 
causes us to connect in our minds, these notions with the other 
notions of weight, solidity, substance, &c. 

The Greeks, I say, wanted a word to express this appearance, 
likeness, figure, or representation of things, wholly independent 
of the things themselves. In fact, they wanted a name for 
the ghosts of things — apparitions of things which can be seen, 
but not felt — so they made this word idea out of the word eideo, 
to see. As eideo, then, signifies to see, and properly to see 
only, idea signifies that which can be seen, and seen only. It is 
exactly equivalent with our words similitude, appearance, figure, 
likeness. I think it was the Greek philosopher Plato, who first 
used this word to indicate those likenesses of things which exist 
in the mind — those phantasmata, for instance, which we see in 
our dreams. " Plato appears to have conceived of the divine 
principle as distinct, not merely from matter, but from the 
efficient cause, and as eternally containing within itself ideas of 
intelligible forms, which, flowing from the fountain of the 
divine essence, have in themselves a real existence, and in the 
formation of the visible world, were, by the energy of the 
efficient cause, united to matter to produce sensible bodies. 
These ideas, Plato defines to be the peculiar natures of things, 
or essences as such ; and asserts that they always remain the 
same, without beginning or end." So that Plato's ideas were a 
sort of skeletons to be filled up with matter. Plato is generally 
considered an exceedingly difficult Greek author — it is hard to 
understand him. And well it may ! But I say it is just as 
difficult to understand him when translated into plain English, 
as it is in the original Greek, for in both instances it is 
impossible. Plato did not understand himself. If he had, it 
would have been easy for others to understand him also ; for 
" when the waters are clear it is easy to see to the bottom." 
In Plato's conception of the nature of things, his doctrines of 
ideas, intelligible forms, essences, &c, there is not a whit more 
sense than there is in the braying of an ass. But the divine 



WORDS AND THINGS. 85 

Broad-shoulders — for Plato's original name was Aristocles, and 
hie got the name of Plato from the breadth of his shoulders, and 
the other name. Divine, from his supposed wisdom — but the 
Divine Plato, I say, is not the only philosopher who has written 
vast quantities of sheer nonsense about ideas, essences, sub- 
stances, qualities, &c. Des Cartes, Malebranche, the immortal 
Locke himself, Bishop Berkeley, Dugald Stuart, David Hume, 
with heaps upon heaps of other men of great erudition, and 
unquestionable talent, have all written mountains upon moun- 
tains of the most pure, unqualified, unadulterated nonsense 
upon the same subjects. To these, Locke forms an exception ; 
for in his bushel of chaff there is a single grain of wheat, 
which is more than can be said of the others. And why have 
these learned and talented men written so very absurdly upon 
these subjects. Simply and solely because they did not under- 
stand the meanings of the words they used. Because they did 
not understand the nature and use of language. 

I understand Sir Graves C. Haughton, author of an inval- 
uable Sanscrit dictionary, has published a work on these 
subjects ; but I have not seen it. 

B. 

But if so many learned and clever men have written so much 
nonsense, and all, except Locke, nothing but nonsense, about 
these same ideas, how shall I assure myself that what you are 
about to say will not be nonsense too ? 

A. 

A very shrewd, sensible, and proper question — and one 
which shows you are not asleep. But I have an answer ready — 
an answer which would satisfy even Pyrrho himself, who doubted 
of everything — and it is this: because you shall understand me, 
because every man shall understand me, from the horny-handed 
tiller of the soil up to the acute and highly educated metaphy- 
sical logician. Your very errand boy shall understand me, 
because what I say shall be in accordance with the common sense 
of all mankind, and not in opposition to it, like the doctrines of the 
Bishop of Cloyne, who wrote a book expressly in order to prove 
that there is nothing real in nature ; but that all things are merely 
ideal, and that the chairs and tables in his house were not really 



86 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

chairs and tables, but only their ghosts. Of this book David 
Hume, the acutest metaphysician that ever lived, said, that 
"though nobody could believe it, yet nobody could disprove it." 
Dr. Samuel Johnson did disprove it though, by kicking his foot 
against a stone, which, in my opinion, was the wisest and most 
sensible argument that Dr. Samuel Johnson ever used. I firmly 
believe the most abstruse sciences, algebra, trigonometry, 
fluxions, are all equally level with the capacity of the commonest 
ploughman, were they properly explained to him ; although he 
might not have education enough to enable him to write his 
own name, or to read it when printed. The only inlets to every 
species of knowledge are the senses. And what sense has God 
given to the prince which he has denied to the pedlar ? What 
sense has he given to the Gentile that he has not given in equal 
perfection to the Jew ? Is the organization of the ploughman's 
eye less perfect than that of the philosopher ? Cannot his ears 
hear, and his nerves feel, with as much precision as those of the 
astronomer, the geometrician, and algebraist ? And what 
sources of knowledge have these latter which the ploughman has 
not ? I say none — none. The ploughman has his five senses, 
and the philosopher has no more ; and the five senses of the one 
are in all respects similar to the five senses of the other. Has 
the philosopher a larger brain than the ploughman ? Go open 
their skulls and see. I have seen the brains of many a plough- 
man — or at least of many of the genus ploughmen — and I also 
saw the brain of Jeremy Bentham — a great man, a wise man, a 
learned man, and a philosopher. Wherein did they differ? 
Go ask the plate wherein it differs from the platter. But these 
learned philosophers — these mathematicians and astronomers — 
have a language of their own, like the Indian Brahmans. They 
talk of their sines and co-sines, their segments, tangents, radii, 
and angles. But tell a ploughman that by their radii they mean 
nothing in the world but the spokes of his waggon wheel, and 
that an angle is only another word for the point of his plough- 
share, and he will understand them as well as the acutest 
philosopher of them all. Will he not ? The whole difficulty lies 
in the nature of the words and phrases used to impart these 
sciences. And as these are not understood by the teacher, he 



WORDS AND THINGS. 87 

cannot explain them to the pupil ; and if a pupil do not under- 
stand the language in which it is attempted to instruct him in 
a science, how can he hope to acquire the science itself? Said 
he not well and truly- — he — Home Tooke — that all sciences must 
finally centre in the science of language ? That is the true 
meanings of words ? I say that all real knowledge is but common 
sense, and may be understood by all who possess common sense, 
and that whatever is not common sense, however it may be digni- 
fied by learned terms and a technical phraseology, is nothing in the 
world but common nonsense. I will give you a hasty instance 
of the truth of what I have just said about the language of 
science, in order to impress it more firmly on your mind, and 
then return in search of my "lost idea." If you say to a 
ploughman : " Mr. Ploughman, are you aware that your hat is 
subject to the law of gravitation V 3 he will stare at you, and 
answer, "no." But if you say: "are you aware that, if I 
knock your hat off your head, it will fall to the ground ?" he 
will perfectly understand you and answer, " yes." Now I affirm 
that these two questions are but simply one and the same, only 
put in a different form of language. And I undertake to make 
you as intimately and thoroughly acquainted with the nature 
of ideas, and the whole science of metaphysics, that impenetra- 
ble rock, which has split the skulls and confounded the wits of 
the philosophers of all countries and all ages, as you are with the 
nature of the commonest objects in this room — say the poker and 
tongs. Observe, I say, as well, not better. Will this satisfy you ? 

B. 

Perfectly. 

A. 

I must insist, however, on being allowed to travel on, step by 
step, in my own way. The noblest, the most useful trees, and 
those which live the longest, are usually those which are of the 
slowest growth. By the way, if you will remind me (for other- 
wise I shall probably forget it) when I come to speak more 
connectedly and particularly of the meanings of words, I will 
show you how the dead languages, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, may be 
acquired in an incredibly short time — certainly in a less number 
of months than the usual number of years now devoted to them. 



88 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

The word idea, I have shown, properly signifies figure, likeness, 
or appearance. These are English words exactly equivalent 
with the Greek word idea. Now since we have English words 
exactly equivalent with this heathen word idea — English words 
which all Englishmen understand — for instance, the word 
likeness — why did not Locke, who wrote a great book all about 
ideas — why did not Locke, I say, use one of these same good old 
English words which we all understand? What did he want 
with a heathenish Greek word ? "Why did he take the trouble 
to sail all the way up the Mediterranean, in order to bring home 
this foreigner whom nobody wanted, and nobody knew ? He 
surely would not have done this without some strong motive ? 
Men are always actuated by some motive, although they are 
frequently, indeed almost always, themselves unacquainted with 
that motive. This was Locke's case. Locke had an excellent 
reason for using a Greek word, although, to do him justice, I 
verily believe he was not himself aware of it. Had Locke used 
the plain English word likeness, the mischief of it would have 
been, that every one would have understood it ! Had he used 
the word likeness, Locke himself could not have helped under- 
standing himself. He must then infallibly have known when he 
was writing nonsense, and when he was writing sense. But in 
this case, as no man would knowingly write mere nonsense, he 
must have finished his book at the end of his eightieth page, 
instead of carrying it on to seven hundred and eleven. He 
must have given up nineteen twentieths of his hypothesis. What 
philosopher can be expected to submit to this ? But what was 
he to do ? If he used the word likeness, his readers, and his 
own common sense, would be constantly annoying him with 
impertinent questions. "Likeness of what?" " Likeness of 
what V* they would cry. Locke was fully aware that he would 
have very often indeed found it impossible to explain this 
" what," although he also felt that he would be bound to do so. 
At this rate— that is, if he had been compelled to write nothing 
but what he could himself understand and explain to others — 
his book would have dwindled to a mere pamphlet of eighty 
pages, unworthy the name and repetition of a learned philosopher 
—I mean for its bulk. I say, for its bulk — for these eighty 



WORDS AND THINGS. 89 

pages, which, form the single grain of wheat in Locke's bushel 
of chaff, contain truths of immense importance to knowledge, 
and have immortalized their author as a brilliant exception to 
all other metaphysicians. But if Locke had used a word of a 
clear and definite meaning which could not be mistaken, he must 
have been compelled, on all occasions, to make his hypothesis 
yield and bend to the fixed meaning of that word. But he did 
not like to see his hypothesis warped and bent to the meaning of 
a word, but he wanted a word whose accommodating meaning- 
would bend this way or that — hither and thither — any way, in fact 
in order to accommodate itself to his hypothesis. So he chose the 
Greek word idea, which, not being clearly or definitely understood 
either by himself or his readers, might, at any and all times, be 
taken to mean anything or nothing, just as his hypothesis 
required. When his hypothesis was in good health, it (the word 
idea) had a very good and definite meaning, viz., likeness. But 
whenever his hypothesis fell sick of an idea in this sense, and 
seemed likely to die, he administered a dose of physic to the word, 
purged away this unwholesome meaning, and so set his hypo- 
thesis on its legs again. 

It is really wonderfully curious to observe how readily the 
wisest men do impose upon their own understandings ! Locke, 
with the view of making his readers clearly acquainted, as he 
supposed, with what he meant by the word idea, imitated the 
mathematicians, and, as Bacon advises all philosophers to do, set 
down at a very early part of his book a definition of what he 
himself meant by that word. I have already shown you what 
the word really means, which Locke also admits in his definition. 
But one meaning was not enough to keep his hypothesis in good 
health. Accordingly his definition of the word makes it mean 
anything and everything. These are his words : " Whatever 
the mind perceives/' (that is, sees) " in itself, or is the imme- 
diate object of perception/' (which is only another way of saying 
the same thing) " thought, or understanding, that I call an 
idea." Now it is perfectly obvious, according to this definition, 
that either the whole universe is composed of nothing but ideas, 
as Bishop Berkeley asserted, or else the word idea means any- 
thing and everything which the universe contains ; for there is 

H 



90 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

nothing in the universe that may not be made the " object of 
thought," and, according to Locke, whatever can be the imme- 
diate object of thought is an idea. For instance, pain may be 
an immediate object of thought. Pain, therefore, according to 
Locke, is an idea. To talk, therefore, of the ' ' idea of pain," is 
the same thing as to talk of the " idea of an idea" ! Locke 
could only escape from this by making the word signify one 
thing in one place, and another in another. But some readers, 
not knowing clearly what the word idea means, and taking it for 
granted that the phrase " idea of an idea" must mean something 
or other, although they could not exactly see what — I say, some 
readers there are who might perhaps pass over even this expres- 
sion without much wincing. But had Locke used the wqrd 
likeness — had he talked of the " likeness of a likeness" — hea- 
ven and earth ! who could endure it ? 

But he could never have persuaded his readers to believe that 
the word likeness signified all this, and yet it signifies full as 
much as the word idea does. People will read, and even praise 
a book, if they be not compelled to understand it. But if you 
compel them to understand it by using plain words, whose 
meanings cannot be mistaken, then they will insist upon having 
sense, and not nonsense. Thus they would read the phrase 
" idea of softness" with all possible complacency, but had Locke 
written "likeness of softness," they would have been very apt to 
cavil at it as unintelligible. Although, therefore, Locke has 
defined what he means by the word idea, he means so many 
things that, whenever his hypothesis gets into a scrape and seems 
in danger of being taken in the fact — caught tripping — there 
are always plenty of back doors standing ready open for her to 
escape through. 

But whatever these ideas, or likenesses, or appearances, or 
skeleton forms may be, let us see how we come by them. 

This question Locke has put beyond the possibility of doubt now 
and for ever. He has proved incontestibly that we acquire all our 
ideas through the medium of our senses — that there are and can 
be no such things as innate ideas — that is, ideas born with us, 
and in us, as a part of our nature. He has further proved that 
all human knowledge is derived from these ideas, and therefore, 



WORDS AND THINGS. 91 

that all human knowledge is derived from the evidence of our 
senses. 

B. 
Pardon me a moment. I remember that a short time after 
your critique on Lord Brougham's Theology was published in 
the Metropolitan Magazine, in which you asserted, as you have 
done now, that, according to Locke, we derive all our ideas from 
1 our senses — I was in company with a gentleman who remarked 
that Locke does not say that all our ideas come to us through 
the windows of our senses. 

A. 
I have not said that Locke did say so. I do not now say that 
Locke said so, or wrote so, — I only say that Locke proved it to 
be so. He did not know it — he did not mean to do it — but he 
did it nevertheless. His case was the case of many. In proving 
what he wished to prove, he proved more than he intended. I 
do not know who this gentleman is, or was, but whoever he 
may be, he must have read pretty much as a parrot would read 
if parrots could be taught to read at all. This gentleman did 
not read Locke's book, he only read Locke. He did not weigh 
the sense of Locke's doctrines in the balance of his own under- 
standing. He only read Locke's words, as a parrot might do, 
and took the sense for granted. All he knows, therefore, about 
Locke's book is what a child would know who had been com- 
pelled to get the work by heart. He knows whether Locke said 
this, or did not say that, but whether what Locke said was 
right or wrong, is a matter which he seems willing to allow is 
altogether beyond the reach of his comprehension. Your friend 
reminds me of the disciples of Pythagoras. When they were 
questioned about any of the Pythagorean doctrines, — whenever 
they were asked to give a reason for their belief — the invariable 
answer was, "autos epha" — "ipse dixit"- — "Pythagoras said so." 
There was no replying to an argument like this — it settled all 
disputes, and silenced all doubts. It was a court of conscience 
from which there was no appeal. It was what the amiable Mr. 
Richard Swiveller would call an " undeniable staggerer." But 
this is not the way to read a book. When men read a work 
they should not care to know whether it was written by a Mr. 

h 2 



92 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

Locke, or Mr. Stocke, or by Mr. the-man-in-the-moon. They are 
only concerned with the book, and nothing but the book. If 
what the book contains be clearly evident to the reader's senses, 
or irreconcilable to his senses, the name of the author cannot 
make it otherwise. We never think of walking with other men's 
legs, nor of tying our cravats with other men's fingers — then 
why should we ever think of seeing with other men's eyes, or of 
hearing with other men's ears ? I have five capital truth-telling 
senses of my own, a clear unclouded eye, an excellent pair of 
ears, and a palate so judicious that I can tell in a moment the 
difference between the flavour of a roasted duck and a goose- 
berry pie. What occasion have I, therefore, to borrow the 
senses of another man ? If what I see in a book be in accord- 
ance with the evidence of my five senses, I will believe it though 
an idiot write it. But if what I see contradict the evidence of 
my senses, I will not believe it, though it be the joint produc- 
tion of seventeen thousand philosophers. For what is the office 
of an instructor of men ? Is it to invent, to make, to create 
things which before had no existence ? No — certainly not ; no 
human creature can do this. All that the wisest have done, or 
can ever do, is to discover truths which existed before, but 
whose existence was not known. But when they have dis- 
covered these truths, (as they are called) and shown them to 
mankind, mankind is as well able to judge whether they be 
truths or not as those who discovered them. It is the office of 
a philosopher to dig as it were into the earth in search of 
treasures. But when he has found a treasure, and brought it 
out of the bowels of the earth, and placed it on its surface where 
all men can see it, then, in judging whether it be really and 
truly a treasure or not, I shall take the liberty of using my own 
senses, and not the senses of the philosopher who discovered it. 
And if a philosopher dig, and dig, and dig, and at last turn up a 
heavy something, and then desire me to behold and admire the 
fine brilliant ingot of pure gold which he has discovered — and if 
I look, and look, and look with all the eyes I have, but can see 
nothing but a great black cinder — shall I take the philosopher's 
word for it, and purchase it at his own price ? or shall I trust to 
the opinion of my own senses, and persist in believing it a mere 
cinder ? 



WORDS AND THINGS. 93 

B. 

I am almost certain that you have now said more than you 
intended; and more than you can prove. You have said that 
the five senses are all that are necessary to understand the ab- 
strusest philosophy when properly explained ? This is most 
manifestly untrue. For has not a dog five senses ? And are 
they not as acute and perfect as your own, and even more so ? 

A. 
Indeed they are. But I have never said what you attribute to 
me. I said the five senses of a ploughman, not of a dog. 

B. 
But are not the senses of both the same? Does not a dog see, 
hear, smell, taste, and feel ? 

A. 
Most true. But is there no other difference between the two 
animals ? Can they both talk ? Have they both the same num- 
ber of articulate sounds ? The same copious and varied form of 
language ? If a dog happen to gnaw a particular herb, which 
afterwards gives him a pain in the bowels, can he go and tell 
other dogs not to do the same, because, if they do, it will poison 
them ? I tell you that you have not yet the slightest conception 
how much of our boasted wisdom and superiority over other 
animals we owe solely to the faculty of speech. In my work on 
"Life, Health, and Disease," I have already insisted a good deal 
on this. But I was not then even myself fully aware how great, 
how stupendous is the debt which we owe to the organs of 
speech. When I come to explain to you the meaning of the 
word thing — the word be — the word ivord — and such words as 
substance, essence, existence, being — I tell you again you will be 
astonished to find how great is the double debt which we owe to 
the faculty of speech. I say the double debt, for there are two. 
The former is one of gratitude for the immeasurable superiority 
which it has given us over every other living thing. The latter 
is one of deep execration for the dark pyramid of misery which 
it has piled upon so many human hearts, — and for having 
planted, in the very centre of the green garden of God's beau- 
tiful earth, a upas-tree, whose poisonous branches extend into 
every corner, and whose leaves drop palsies into the breasts of 



94 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

men. But I will lay a worm to its root — a worm that shall 
gnaw its fibres, and suck up its juices, and sap its strength, and 
poison the very life-springs of " this all-blasting tree ;" and in 
the fulness of time its leaves and its branches shall wither and 
die, and the earth shall be no more overshadowed with its 
luxuriant horrors. For I am about to erect the temple, and to 
raise the altar, for which Locke cleared the ground, and Home 
Tooke laid the foundation. And the temple shall be entered by 
five doors, and lighted by five windows, and its roof shall be 
supported by five columns. And round the altar shall stand 
five virgins arrayed in the purest white, with every one a crucible 
of pure gold in her hand. And the temple shall be called the 
temple of Knowledge, and the altar the altar of Speech. And 
every one who sacrifices in this temple, shall lay his offering on 
this altar. And no man's offering shall be accepted, and placed 
in the treasure chamber of the temple, until it shall have been 
tried in the golden crucibles of the virgins. But let us return 
to Locke's "origin of ideas." 

Locke divided all ideas into two great classes — viz. those 
which come to us through our senses, and those which we get 
out of these by reflection — or, as he elsewhere calls it, by the 
mind bending back upon itself in order to take a view of its own 
operations. In another place he explains this word reflection, 
by saying, that it, viz. the mind, " turns its view inward upon 
itself, observes its own actions, takes from thence other ideas, 
which are as capable to be the objects of its contemplation, as 
any of those it received from foreign things." Elsewhere he 
likens the mind of a newly-born infant to a blank sheet of 
white paper, ready to receive the impressions to be presently made 
upon it by the external objects by which the child is surrounded. 
In the passage above, and in those others to which I have just 
alluded, Locke manifestly speaks of the mind, the operations of 
the mind, ideas, and contemplation, as four distinct and different 
things. Now I would be glad to know what is the nature of 
that mind which is wholly destitute of ideas — the mind for 
instance of an infant newly-born — or an hour, a day, a week, a 
month, before it is born ? He speaks, too, of contemplation as a 
something distinct from ideas, but yet giving, or helping to give, 



WORDS AND THINGS. 95 

rise to ideas. Here is, first, a mind; secondly, a mind which 
contemplates ; and thirdly, certain objects of that contemplation, 
viz. ideas. He speaks of the mind, too, first, as a blank sheet 
of paper, having nothing to do but passively to receive ideas. 
How can this blank sheet of paper contemplate? He then 
speaks of the mind as though it were an elastic body which can 
be " bent back upon itself. " But even an elastic body cannot 
be bent back upon itself — but only one part of it can be bent 
back upon another part. Can the mind therefore be divided 
into parts ? But he says it bends back, that is, reflects upon 
itself in order to take a view of the ideas which it has received 
from the senses, and that from this bending back it obtains 
other ideas, viz. those of bending back, or reflection. But is 
there then some one particular part of the mind which is the 
receptacle of ideas, and another particular part which has the 
power of seeing, or contemplating, or peeping into that other 
part which contains the ideas ? He next speaks of the mind as 
of some hollow or solid body, for he -says, "it turns its view 
inward upon itself." But even a solid body cannot be turned 
inward upon itself. A part of it, if it be not too hard, may be 
turned inward which before was outward, but it cannot be made 
to be all inside ! He must mean, therefore, that a part of the 
mind (that part which has the power of contemplating) is turned 
inward towards that other part which holds the ideas ! While 
Locke had truth and common sense on his side — that is, while 
he was proving that there can be no such things as innate, that 
is, inborn ideas, no one could write more intelligibly. A child 
or a ploughman may understand him; And this is always the 
case. If a man understand himself he never can possibly have 
the slightest difficulty in making others understand him. But 
the moment he quits the subject of innate ideas — the moment 
he quits the broad straight path of common sense, it is exceed- 
ingly amusing to observe how he flounders about, plunging at 
every step out of the mud into the mire, and every now and 
then stopping a moment to endeavour to wipe the slough from 
his feet, which has no other effect than that of transferring the 
mire from his feet to his hands. Had Locke been compelled 
to write in the English language — that is, had he been com- 



96 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

pelled to use only English words so that nobody could mistake 
their meaning — had he been obliged to use the English word 
back-bending, instead of the Latin word reflexion; and the 
English word through-taking instead of the Latin word percep- 
tion — and the English word likeness instead of the Greek word 
idea, he would not, he could not, nobody could, have written such 
intolerable trash as he began and continued to write the moment 
he had done with that part of his subject which he understood. 

He speaks of pain, and pleasure, (which surely are sufficiently 
real) and power, and succession, as so many ideas. Afterwards 
he speaks of the ideas of these ideas. So that pain is but an 
idea — and the idea of pain is but the idea of an idea. But an 
idea is the likeness of something. Pain, therefore, according to 
Locke, is the likeness of a likeness which is like nothing ; for if 
pain be but a likeness, what is it like ? Again, he speaks of ideas, 
the understanding, and the mind, as three separate and distinct 
things. For he says, "the mind furnishes the understanding with 
ideas of its own operations/'' How can there be a mind without 
an understanding, or an understanding without a mind ? Or 
ideas without either ? Are not the mind and the understanding 
the same thing? And if so, then the passage will run thus: "the 
mind furnishes the mind with ideas of the mind's operations/'' 

But the matter stood thus. He undertook to explain the 
origin of ideas, after he had proved that they could not possibly 
come to us before w T e are born. The senses immediately offered 
themselves to his mind, as at least one source of a vast number 
of ideas. But then Locke found, in the language of his own 
country, and in all the other languages with which he was ac- 
quainted, such words as power, faith, discerning, judgment, 
reasoning, thinking, perception, &c. &c, and having imbibed 
the notion, from the older Writers on language, that every noun 
was the sign or name of an idea ; and seeing at once that these 
supposed ideas which he supposed to be represented by those 
words, could not have come to us either by the nose, the ears, 
the eyes, or the mouth ; and yet feeling assured that they must 
have come to us by some means or other, since we are, as he 
supposed, in possession of them — what was he to do ? He must 
find a source for those fancied ideas somewhere or other, by 
hook or by crook- — so he thought of this word reflection. And 



WORDS AND THINGS. 97 

having accustomed himself to talk of the mind as a material 
substance, and connected it in his mind with the properties and 
qualities of material substances, and thus having, in his own 
mind, endowed it with the power of looking, and feeling, and 
bending, he continued to think of it as though the mind were 
really a living and thinking animal, and capable of looking into 
itself, as we are said to look into our own breasts, when we 
consult our own thoughts. Accustomed to consider man as 
consisting of two parts, mind and matter — and his thoughts 
being filled with these ideas when he was talking of the mind 
alone — about its viewing — its looking into itself — its reflecting 
upon its own operations, &c. &c, he totally forgot that though 
a man consists of two parts, the mind has but one, viz., itself. 
It is absurd, therefore, to talk of the mind viewing itself, as it 
would be to talk of an eye seeing itself. He, in fact, unwittingly 
compares the mind to that thinking compound called man, 
which is an absurd and impossible comparison. 

First of all Locke makes the mind quite passive, as in the 
case of a newly-born infant, when he compares it to a sheet of 
paper. But by and bye he is obliged to make it active, other- 
wise he could not have found a source for those ideas which he 
calls ideas of reflection, because these, says he, result from the 
mind's own actions upon itself. But by and bye it becomes 
passive again. Why ? Because it was necessary to the health 
of Locke's hypothesis that it should be so. But here, all at 
once, he seems to become conscious that he has, somehow or 
other, got into the mud. So he stops suddenly, and endeavours 
to clean his feet a little. " Though thinking," says he, "in the 
propriety of the English tongue" (just as though thinking was 
not the same all the world over, let the language or tongue be 
what it may) " signifies that sort of operation" (it has come, you 
see, from an operation to a sort of operation now) " of the mind 
about its ideas, wherein the mind is active : where it, with some 
degree of voluntary attention, considers anything. For in bare, 
naked perception/' (what sort of thing is that ?) " the mind is 
for the most parf (he seems loth to bring it out, but it must 
come) "passive" 

In one place he calls perception an idea — in another place 



CONNEXION BETWEEN 



a faculty. In one place he says, " we begin to have ideas when 
we begin to perceive ;" but if perception be itself an idea, this is 
only to say that " we begin to have ideas when we begin to have 
ideas. " Again, he says, cc but though these two later sorts of 
qualities are powers barely, and nothing but powers" — why he has 
told us a dozen of times that quality is an idea, and that power 
is an idea ! — why does he insult us thus by telling us that an 
idea is an idea, and nothing but an idea ? I will tell you why — 
simply because he did not know what he was talking about. 
And then he goes on to talk of resemblances, and primary 
qualities, and secondary qualities, and qualities immediately 
perceivable, and qualities mediately perceivable. He says again, 
" If any one ask me what this solidity is, I send him to his 
senses to inform him." Ay, to be sure! But why did not Mr. 
Locke go to his own senses for information as to the meaning 
of all the other important words which he uses himself? They 
are excellent counsellors, these same five senses of ours, are 
seldom mistaken, and never lie if they know it. Why did not 
Locke ask his senses what is the meaning of the word space, for 
instance ? or motion, or distance, or reflection ? Why did he not 
ask his ear whether it could hear it, his eye whether it could 
see it, his nose whether it could smell, his tongue whether it 
could taste it ? If they could not tell him what space is, they 
could and would have told what it is not. 

Again, " These two, I say, viz. external, material things, as the 
objects of sensation, and the operations of our own minds within, 
as the objects of reflection, are, to me, the only originals, from 
whence all our ideas take their beginnings." Is not this plain 
language ? Can it be possibly mistaken ? 

B. 

It seems to me perfectly plain. 

A. 

Yes — but this is not by any means the only passage in which 
he distinctly tells us that we have no one idea, of what kind 
soever, which does not come into the mind either by sensation 
or reflection. And yet, hear what he says in his first letter to 
the Bishop of Worcester. " I never said that the general idea of 
substance comes in by sensation or reflection \" 



WORDS AND THINGS. 99 

In another place, he says, " It is not in the power of the most 
exalted wit, or enlarged understanding, by any quickness or 
variety of thoughts, to invent or frame one new single idea in the 
mind, not taken in by the ways before mentioned" — that is, 
reflection or sensation. But hear him, in his letter to the 
Bishop. "General ideas/'' says Locke to the Bishop, "come not 
into the mind by sensation or reflection, but are the creatures or 
inventions of the understanding !" If these general ideas be 
only a combination of original simple ideas, how can they be 
creatures or inventions, either of the understanding or of any- 
thing else? And if they be not merely old, simple, original ideas, 
differently combined, then what becomes of Locke's assertion 
that we get no simple ideas but either through sensation or 
reflection, since a general idea is but a cluster of single ideas, as 
a constellation is a cluster of stars; and yet, according to Locke, 
" general ideas come not into the mind either by sensation or 
reflection." He flatly contradicts himself. It is really wonder- 
ful that Locke, who had so keen an eye to observe the verbal 
follies of others, should not have paid more attention to his own 
language. The Peripatetic philosophers defined the idea of light 
to be, " the act of perspicuous, as far forth as perspicuous." 
Another definition of the same school is, " the act of a being in 
power, as far forth as in power." Locke ridicules this unmean- 
ing hocus-pocus language. "What more exquisite jargon could 
the wit of men invent," says he, "than these definitions?" 
Truly, it would be perhaps impossible to invent a jargon more 
exquisite, but Locke himself has equalled it, though he could not 
surpass it. For instance, hear him : "Nor will any one wonder 
that I say these essences, or abstract ideas, which are the mea- 
sures of name, and the boundaries of species, are the workmanship 
of the understanding." He then endeavours to show that there 
are two sorts of essences, and calls them, " the one real, the 
other nominal." Now if the word nominal mean anything at 
all, it means that that to which it is applied has no existence — 
except, as we say, in name. And the word real, if it mean 
anything, means like a thing, or having the nature of a thing or 
things. Here, therefore, we have an essence which is no essence, 
and an essence which is not an essence, but a substance. And 



100 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

with regard to bis " abstract ideas/' if the word abstract mean 
anything, it means taken away, and the phrase " abstract idea/' 
therefore, if it mean anything, must and can only mean an idea 
abstracted from, disconnected with everything — produced by no 
substance or thing — that is, a sign which is the sign of nothing 
— that is, no sign or idea at all. And these essences which are 
no essences, and these ideas which are no ideas, are the work- 
manship of the understanding ! 

But it is idle to pursue and hunt down more of these inanities. 
To unearth them all would occupy, I verily believe, four or five 
thick volumes. There is scarcely a paragraph in the whole 
book, (which contains more than seven hundred pages) which 
is not pregnant with a whole family of the most ugly, misshapen, 
and misbegotten absurdities — always excepting that part of his 
work in which he proves that no ideas can be innate, and those 
few pages devoted to the use, and abuse, and manner of signifi- 
cation, and vital importance, of words. 

It is the same with all the others, from Plato and Aristotle, 
who wrote more than two thousand years ago, down to the 
metaphysical writers of the last century. If you have any 
question as to whether I have quoted and dealt fairly with 
Locke's book, when we have finished our conversations, read it 
— that is, if you can. You will then, but not till then, be in a 
condition to detect these monstrosities at a glance — not only 
such as are contained in the Essay on the Human Understanding, 
but those also which disfigure the pages of all our philosophical 
writers, our essayists, our moralists, our politicians, our political 
economists, and our writers on the laws of nations. 

Des Cartes, who overthrew the Platonic and Peripatetic 
systems, in order to erect one of his own, not less absurd, 
founded it entirely on these words : " Cogito, ergo sum" — 
that is : "I think, therefore I am" He might just as well 
have said : " I sneeze, therefore the kettle boils." For he did 
not know the meaning either of the word think, or the word am 
■ — or of their Latin, Greek, or Erench equivalents. To have 
known the meaning and true force of these words would have 
gone well-nigh, of itself, to overturn the whole fabric of his new 
system. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 101 

It seems to me that Locke, who was a very pious man, was 
puzzled how to account, if he made the senses the only inlets of 
knowledge, for that conviction, amounting to absolute certainty, 
which all men feel of the existence of a supreme, omniscient, all- 
powerful, intelligent Deity. I say all men — for I do not believe 
it possible to doubt it. I do not believe it possible to doubt 
the existence of one infinite being, supremely wise and good, 
any more than it is possible to doubt that a healthy eye sees, 
when its lids are open to the light. And it is true that all men 
form to themselves ideas of God, but those ideas are all 
necessarily only copies of ourselves. We necessarily do this, 
because we could not pray to him, we could not think of him, 
unless we formed some idea of him. We arrive at the idea of 
God by first contemplating the idea of man, and then, divesting 
this idea of its materiality, we endeavour to raise our thoughts 
as far as possible upward toward infinite wisdom and power. 
In a word, we invest our idea of intelligent man with the infinite 
attributes of the Almighty. We do this manifestly in the very 
language of our prayers when we beseech him to hear us, and to 
look down in mercy upon our helpless condition. In this 
language we plainly invest our idea of the Creator with the 
human organs of ^seeing and hearing. And we are justified in 
this, not only by necessity, but by the language of scripture 
everywhere, and by the words put into the mouth of Moses by 
God himself. But we do not really suppose these organs to 
form any part of the true idea of God, but we are compelled to 
use this language because we have no other. No human 
language can convey infinite ideas ; and it is plain that no finite 
mind can contain an infinite idea. It seems to me that he must 
have an exceedingly limited and imperfect notion of the Deity — 
of that wonderful Being who " stretcheth out the north over the 
empty place, and hangeth the earth upon nothing" — of that 
incomprehensible Power of whom Zopher said : " It is higher 
than heaven, what canst thou do ? — deeper than hell, what 
canst thou know V 3 — I say his notion of the boundless immensity 
of Goer's greatness must be indeed very lame and imperfect, who 
thinks his own mind capable of containing its idea or repre- 
sentation. Indeed in another part of Locke's book, he himself 



102 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

falls into this same strain of argument. The conviction of the 
existence of a God is an irresistible conviction — and arises from 
that division of sensation which I shall designate internal 
sensation or instinct — and which Aristotle beautifully calls the 
" divinity which stirs within us ;" and which in another place 
he says, " is not reason, but something better." 

It is manifestly impossible that we can have any ideas, or any 
species of knowledge whatever, excepting what we derive from 
our senses only. Locke himself says that we get both our ideas 
of sensation and reflection from experience ; and what experience 
we can have excepting by our senses I am wholly at a loss to 
conceive. The Rev. Thomas Reid, doctor of divinity, and 
formerly professor of moral philosophy in the University of 
Glasgow, says, in his "Enquiry into the Human Mind," that 
Locke's hypothesis of ideas of reflection derived from previous 
ideas of sensation, is contrary to all the rules of logic. But I 
say it is contrary to common sense. Suppose Locke had in his 
mind the ideas of a horse and an elephant. He might chop 
these ideas into twenty pieces, mix them together, and then 
reunite them so as to form a monster never before recognized 
by mortal ken. But what then ? Would not every part of this 
monstrous idea have been nevertheless derived from the several 
parts of the horse and the elephant, which were themselves 
derived from the sense of sight ? He might put the ideal 
horse's head upon the neck of the ideal elephant, but the idea 
of the horse's head would still have been derived from the sense 
of sight, as well as the neck and carcase of the elephant. You 
cannot by any possible magic of the mind, nor can a madman, 
nor can he who dreams, get an instant's glimpse of any one 
thing, the likeness of the several parts of which you or they have 
not seen before. Shakespeare, of whom it has been said, that 
he first exhausted worlds, and then invented new, and who 
could have created a new idea, if anybody could, found it 
nevertheless wholly impracticable. Accordingly we see his 
Caliban, his Sycorax, his Ariel, his Weird Sisters, his Oberon, 
and Titania, are, after all, only so many men and women, 
varying in shape and character, and endowed with fanciful 
attributes, but still only distorted copies of humanity. The 



WORDS AND THINGS. 



103 



same thing holds equally true of the other senses, and only 
requires the exercise of common sense to become apparent. 

I assert, therefore, that when Locke proved that there are no 
such things as inborn ideas — which, after all, is only the same 
thing as proving that there are no ideas in us before we are 
born — he did, in fact, prove, with equal truth and force, that 
we derive all our ideas through the organs of the senses solely. 
For there are but two worlds — the world within, and the world 
without — the world of external things, and the world of our 
own sensations. And whatever, at any time, is not in the one, 
but which is afterward acquired, it must, of absolute necessity, 
come from the other — since man can create nothing — not even 
an idea. And if it be true that whatever is in the one must 
come from the other, by what other portal than those of the 
senses can it possibly find entrance ? There is but one — the 
interposition of a miracle. But suppose — if it be possible to 
suppose an impossible thing — suppose, I say, that man could 
create a new idea — an idea that is the representative of nothing 
existing in the external world of things. Then, since it is the 
representative of nothing — the sign of nothing — cui bono ? To 
what purpose was it created ? Again, if none of our senses can 
take cognizance of it, how are we to know that we have it ? 
How are we to become sensible that it is in us ? It might as 
well have never been created. 

I have said that there can be but two worlds — the world of 
our own sensations, and the world of everything else besides. I 
now say that all we know of the things composing the latter is, 
that we can (what we call) see them, feel them, hear them, taste 
them, or smell them. All we know of the things composing 
the former — that is, the world of sensations — is, that we can 
(what we call) remember them. All human knowledge, there- 
fore, resolves itself into seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting, smelling, 
and remembering. All the rest is belief, and resolves itself into 
that which we believe, but do not know. 

Now then if all human knowledge consist in seeing, feeling, 
hearing, tasting, smelling, and remembering, it follows of course 
that all the words that are necessary for the communication of 
knowledge, are such words only as stand in men's minds as the 



104 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

signs of the things which we see, feel, hear, taste, smell, or 
remember. And that, if there be in any language whatever, 
any other words — that is, words which do not stand as the 
signs of any of these things — all such words, not being the 
signs of anything that we know, must either be mere empty 
noises signifying nothing, and having, therefore, nothing to do 
in the communication of knowledge, or else they must be 
indirect signs of these things — abbreviated forms of speech — 
words which stand as the signs of other words, which other 
words are the direct signs of the things which we see, feel, hear, 
taste, smell, or remember. 

I think I can make this still clearer, by viewing the argument 
more in the little. Suppose we had but one sense — the sense 
of seeing. And suppose everything else in the universe con- 
sisted of but one object. Then I say all that we should know 
would be that we saw that object. And all the words that 
would be necessary to communicate that knowledge to another, 
would be the one word which mankind had agreed should stand 
as the sign or name of that one object. And that, however 
numerous the words of our language might be, they would all 
come within one or other of two classes — that is, words 
signifying nothing, or words which, either directly or indirectly, 
signified that one object. For, it must be remembered, that 
although words are instruments used in the communication of 
knowledge, yet they do not themselves actually convey into 
another's mind ideas which were not there before. All they do, 
as I have said before, is this — they bring under a man's imme- 
diate notice and attention certain ideas which were lying 
dormant in his mind before — differently arranged, if you will, 
but still there. For it is manifest, that if I have in me the idea 
of a fragrance which I have once smelled, but which you have 
never smelled, nor anything in the slightest degree resembling 
it — I say, it is manifest, that no word in any language has the 
power of putting the idea of that fragrance into you. And so 
of the ideas of visible objects — the arrangement of the different 
parts — that is, the different ideas composing the whole group — 
may be such as you have never seen. But the several separate 
ideas must manifestly have been in you before. I may by 



WORDS AND THINGS. 105 

words convey into your mind the idea, as it is called, (but group 
of ideas, as it really is) of such a human being as was never 
seen by any one — the idea of a man with his legs where his 
arms should be, and his head put on the wrong way upwards. 
But I could not convey this into your mind by means of words, 
if all the separate ideas of head, legs, arms, &c. had not been in 
your mind before. 

Since, then, all knowledge resolves itself into seeing, feeling, 
hearing, tasting, smelling, or remembering — and since words 
can be only useful for the purpose of recalling to the mind of 
the hearer something which he has seen, felt, heard, tasted, or 
smelled, but can put no idea into the mind which was not there 
before, it follows that all words, that are anything more than 
mere idle noises, must either directly or indirectly, signify some 
one or other of the things which have been seen, felt, &c. &c. 
Since, if they do not signify any of these, they must manifestly 
signify nothing, there being nothmg else to be signified. 

B. 

If it be true, that all human knowledge does indeed resolve 
itself into seeing, feeling, &c. &c. ; then I see clearly enough 
that what you have stated must follow as an absolutely necessary 
consequence. But it seems to me that your account of human 
knowledge will apply just as well to brute knowledge. For a 
monkey can see, hear, feel, taste, smell, and remember, as well 
as a man. 

A. 

No — he cannot remember so well. But he can remember, 
nevertheless, though not so well — or rather, not for so long 
a time. 

B. 

But he can see, hear, feel, smell, and taste, as well, if not 
better. 

A. 

And what can you do more ? I will tell you — you can talk. 
You can give names to the things which you see, feel, hear, 
taste, smell, and remember. 

B. 

And is this absolutely all ? 



106 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

A. 

Absolutely. " Ignorance," says a wise and truthful aphorism, 
"ignorance lies at the bottom of all our knowledge, and the 
deeper we dig, the nearer we come to it." 

B. 

What knows a dog of cause and effect ? 

A. 

He knows that effects are produced by causes, and that like 
causes will produce like effects — or rather he knows, that is, 
remembers, that they have done so, and he believes that they 
will continue to do so. What know you beyond this ? I have 
heard you laugh scores of times to see both the dog and cat 
scampering down stairs, or up stairs, out of the kitchen, as 
though they were mad, the moment the voice of the catVmeat 
man is heard coming round the square, and most impatiently 
waiting at the street door till his arrival. They know that that 
voice, at that particular time of the day, has been always followed 
by a supply of food, and they believe that the same effect will 
continue to follow. When your house dog hears, in the dead of 
night, a footstep approaching the house, he sets up a furious 
barking, because he believes that noise (the sound of the foot- 
fall,) would not be produced unless it were caused by the 
approach of some person. He does not bark at the sound of the 
wind, nor at the falling of a brick from the house-top near his 
kennel. Nor does he bark if the strange foot-fall be accompanied 
by the voice of his master. If I call him to me, he comes 
bounding joyously toward me ; but if I rub his nose with snuff, 
he will not come to me again, though I call him never so 
coaxingly, until he has forgotten the circumstance. And then, 
if it be not too long afterward, if I show him the box out of 
which he saw me take the snuff, he will grin and sidle away — 
knowing that what I took out of that box was the cause of the 
painful effects produced in his olfactory nerves, and that if he do 
not keep out of the way of the same cause, the same effects will 
be produced again. 

B. 

But is not this what we call instinct ? 

A. 

I do not care what you call it— call it by what name you 



WORDS AND THINGS. 107 

please — only by whatever name you call it in the dog, by that 
name I shall call it in the man. You will please to remember 
that long as I have dwelt upon, and much as I have said about, 
the importance of words, I have all along pressed it upon you that 
they are only important as being the representatives of things, 
or ideas of things— as bank notes are only valuable as being the 
representatives of gold. 

B, 

You have told me that all we can see is colored light. Can a 
dog know this ? 

A. 

No — I have never said that a dog or a monkey knows, or can 
know, as much as a man ; because, though he can see what he 
sees as well, that is, as distinctly, as a man, he has not the 
means or the opportunity of seeing so many things. And because 
he cannot talk, neither can he reason. For in order to reason 
about things, it is absolutely necessary first to give them names. 
We cannot reason, nor think connectedly of several things, 
without having first given them names. It is impossible. For 
reasoning is but silent, internal talking — a talking, as it were, 
with the ideas of words, instead of with words themselves. As 
this adventitious use of words, therefore, enables us to reason, 
so reasoning does, by virtue of what we call association, suggest 
to the mind the possible existence of things which we have yet 
neither seen, felt, &c. We are thus led to search and inquire 
after them, and in the search, accident presents us with things, 
and discovers to us existences of which we should otherwise 
have never dreamed. The formation of the hand, too, that 
beautiful and wonderful instrument, enables us to prosecute our 
inquiries further than it would be possible for any other animal 
to do. And thus it is that innumerable things are presented to 
our eyes, and ears, and other organs, which never do come 
under the notice of a dog. But I suppose that, if you allow a 
dog to use your hands- — that is, if in the prosecution of your 
inquiries, say, for instance, in chemical analysis, you do the 
reasoning, (which the dog cannot do, because he cannot talk) 
and working part, (which the dog cannot do, because he has no 
hands) — and then show him, the dog, the result — I say, if you 

i 2 



108 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

do this, then the dog- will know that result, as long as he can 
remember it, as well as you. That is, he can see it— but he 
cannot give it a name — and therefore cannot talk about it — and 
therefore cannot reason about it, or think about it — and there- 
fore will almost instantly forget that he has seen it. When you 
are looking at it — suppose it be the result of Sir H. Davy's 
wonderful experiments, the metal called potassium — while you 
are looking at this result — this brilliant metal — this potassium, 
all you know by that act of vision is that you see it, and the dog 
knows this too. But the dog cannot give it a name, and you 
can. The dog, therefore, immediately forgets it, when it has 
been removed from his sight. You, on the contrary, having 
given it a name, go on talking and reasoning about it, which 
talking and reasoning lead you and others to the performance 
of similar experiments. And while you are looking, on some 
other occasion, for this potassium, you discover something else, 
to which also you give a name. And thus it is that the simple 
power of giving names to things leads you to the discovery of 
multitudes of others, which otherwise you could never have 
imagined. But all this is manifestly the result of speech, and 
speech alone. But when you have discovered all, still the 
whole amount of your knowledge is that you can see, feel, hear, 
taste, or smell, and remember the things which you have 
discovered. Beyond this, they still remain unknown things. 
For it is the sensations produced by them which alone you 
know ; and they are equally capable of exciting the same 
sensations in a dog or a monkey. 

Thus the impossibility of making a dog comprehend that all 
which he sees is only colored light, is caused by his inability to 
reason — and his inability to reason is the necessary consequence 
of his inability to give names to things ; and not from the want 
of any source of ideas which we have, and he does not possess. 

B. 

How can these things be so, when all the hypotheses — 

A. 

Is it true ? 

B. 

But it is totally irreconcilable with — 



WORDS AND THINGS. 109 

A. 

. Is it true ? 

B. 
According to this the difference between — 

A. 
Is it true ? — that is the only question with which we have 
any concern. It is only a waste of time to go in search of one 
hypothesis to batter down another. The only question worth 
answering is: "is it true?" If it be false, show me that it is 
so, and it will be instantly scattered to the winds without the 
aid of any other opinion or hypothesis whatever. And if it be 
true, why then nothing on earth can make it false. Not all the 
hypotheses that ever were hatched from the eggs of that bud of 
ill-omen, human opinion, 'can alter or shake it, or in any way 
disturb it. But it may not be true — and I only say that if it be 
false, show me that it is so. But this cannot be done by 
measuring it by another equally fallible hypothesis. It can 
only be effected by measuring it by the standard of truth — that 
is, the standard of the nature of things. 

B. 
If this be true, it teaches an humiliating lesson to human 
nature. 

A. 
I do not think so. Our superiority over the brute is not the 
less because we owe it to those curious little organs, the organs 
of speech ! God's wondrous works are not the less wondrous 
because effected by simple contrivances. On the contrary, they 
only become, to thinking men, so much the more astonishing. 

B. 
But a thought has just occurred to me, which seems to prove 
that something more was required in order to realize our 
superiority over the brute, besides the organs of speech. For 
if a dog only wants the organs of speech to become as knowing 
as man, then a man who is without the faculty of speech 
should be no more knowing than a dog. But this is not so. 
For you may teach a deaf and dumb boy what you could never 
teach a dog or a monkey. 

A. 
That is quite true, and I have never said that it is not so. 



110 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

On the contrary, I have expressly said that the peculiar organi- 
zation of the hand greatly contributes to his acquisition of 
knowledge — knowledge which, for want of the hand, the dog 
could never acquire, even if he had the use of words. God 
designed that man should speak. He gave him the faculty of 
speech that he might acquire a degree of knowledge which 
should place him almost infinitely above the brute. But if he 
had given man this power of acquiring knowledge, without the 
instruments necessary to make that power available, he would 
have frustrated his own design, and might just as well have 
withheld the power itself. If, for instance, he had terminated 
the arms of man by extremities resembling the foot of the 
elephant, the faculty of speech would have been of but little 
use. The door of many of the arts and sciences would have 
been closed to him— for instance, all those requiring the use of 
very delicate and minute tools, as, for example, the surgical 
operations for cataract. In the first place, he could never make 
the tools, and in the second, he could never use them if he had 
them. Along with the power, therefore, the Creator has 
bestowed on us an organization expressly adapted to the purpose 
of making that power available. Along with the power of 
speaking he has given us the means necessary to apply that 
power, so as to accomplish his own design, viz. of enabling us 
to acquire a much more multiplied knowledge than can be 
acquired by brutes. If he had given us the faculty of speech^ 
and along with it the organization of an oyster, of what use 
would have been the faculty of speech? An oyster would be 
but little benefited by being enabled to talk. And as of the 
external organization, so of the internal — the organization of 
the brain. This, too, like that of the hands, has been adapted 
for the use of a being destined to speak. But all these differ- 
ences are clearly differences in formation — in organization only 
■ — not in nature or kind. Surely it will be allowed that there 
is scarcely more difference between the intellect of an elephant 
and that of an idiot, or Cretin of the Valais, than there is be- 
tween the intellect of an idiot and that of such men as Shakes- 
pere, Newton, Davy, Scott — a Pitt, a Fox, or a Sheridan. Yet 
in this latter instance, I suppose all will allow that the differ- 



«s 



WORDS AND THINGS. Ill 

ence can only be one of organization and quantity — not of 
source or quality. For the quality and source of what the 
idiot really does know are the same, whether that portion of 
knowledge exists in the mind of Shakespere, or in the mind of 
an idiot. For instance, an idiot knows that he cannot thrust 
his hand through the window without breaking the glass and 
hurting his hand. And I say the quality and source of this 
isolated piece of knowledge are the same, whether that know- 
ledge exists in the mind of an idiot, or of a philosopher. 

Everybody knows that there are persons whom no efforts, 
and no kind of education, can ever make musicians. But there 
is, residing in the square in which I live, a youth barely thirteen 
years of age, whose musical talents are perfectly astonishing. 
The moment this youth's hands are placed upon the finger- 
board of the piano-forte, the whole instrument seems alive. 
The keys seem to know him — they seem to obey the wishes of 
his mind rather than the touches of his fingers, so wonderfully 
rapid are the movements. While the tones escaping from the 
excited instrument, like flashes of electricity from excited bodies, 
seem mad with joy, and hurry through the air, laughing and 
singing, like imprisoned spirits suddenly set free. Yet amid 
all this appearance of wildness and confusion, this musical deli- 
rium, there is the most perfect order — the most faultless har- 
mony. The great Mocheles himself, whose whole life has been 
devoted to music, has not disdained to play in concert, and in 
public too, with this mere child. Yet, beyond some slight 
modification in the structure of this boy's brain and organs of 
hearing, no one, I presume, will contend that there is any 
fundamental difference between him and others. Neither, with 
regard to the sources of ideas, is there any fundamental differ- 
ence between man and the animals next below him. 

I set out by observing that we receive all our knowledge 
through the organs of the senses, and I have adopted this line of 
argument to show you that the difference between the knowledge 
of brutes (who cannot be supposed to have any other source than 
their senses) and human knowledge, is one, not of kind, species, 
or source — but simply and solely of degree or amount, and 
that the sources of knowledge in both are the same — viz. the 



112 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

organs of the senses. I wish to show you that a slight altera- 
tion in the organization of a monkey's brain — -an alteration 
which should do no more than merely enable it to retain a 
greater multitude of ideas — I mean of ideas to be solely acquired 
through his senses — is all that is required to enable him to reach 
a degree and an amount of knowledge in all respects equal to 
that of man, provided you supply him with a hand, and the 
faculty of speech, 

B. 

But is not this pretty much the same as saying, that if you 
first convert a monkey into a man, you will then make him as 
wise as a man ? 

A. 

No — by no means. For in the imagined alterations I have 
not supposed any new source of ideas — I have not demanded for 
him any other source than those he has now — I have only said, 
"make such alterations in the organization of his brain, as shall 
enable him to take advantage of that additional host of ideas, 
which the gift of speech and a human hand would enable him 
to acquire through those organs of sense which he already 
possesses." Thus proving that if these organs (with the supposed 
alterations of structure which he has not, but which man has) 
be all that is required to enable him to rival man in knowledge, 
they (these organs of the senses) must be all that is necessary to 
account for the superior knowledge of man himself. The 
organs of sense are manifestly designed for the sole purpose of 
receiving knowledge, since they answer no other end ; and when 
accident or disease unfits any one of them for this purpose, it 
becomes totally useless, and one of the doors of knowledge is 
closed to us for ever. They establish the necessary relation 
between man and the things wherewith he is surrounded. They 
are the links which connect him with the external world. They 
enable him to support himself in his place, and (together with 
the faculty of speech) to reach and maintain his position as the 
crowning summit of the inverted pyramid of animal existences. 
In a word, they enable him to fulfil all the offices of life, and 
(together with the faculty of speech) all the purposes, from the 
first to the final cause, of his creation. They are necessary, and 



V 



WORDS AND THINGS, 113 

all that is necessary to the existence and well-being of man. It 
is not necessary (even if it were possible) to imagine any other 
source of ideas. They are of themselves sufficient ; and therefore 
it is idle to imagine others. And all those words, to account 
for which Locke invented his ideas of reflexion, his complex 
ideas, &c, can be more rationally, and more satisfactorily, and 
much more easily explained by other means. While all those 
wild reveries and fanciful theories with which the Platonists and 
Peripatetics of old, and the Cartesians and modern Pyrrhonists 
of later days have amused, and puzzled, and confounded the 
common sense of mankind, without convincing it, can, by the 
same means, be readily exposed, explained and exploded. 

B. 

But may not this very superiority of the human structure 
itself be considered as another source of ideas ? 

A. 

As well might you say that the spade which digs a well is the 
source of the waters which fill it. Can you call the hand a 
source of ideas ? — an inlet of knowledge ? — a channel through 
which ideas enter the mind ? Manifestly not. It is, like the 
spade, a mere tool which its possessor uses to bring hidden things 
within the reach of the senses. If the senses were all shut up, 
what knowledge could enter the mind through the hand ? As 
of the configuration of the hand, so of the configuration of the 
brain. As the hand is no more than an instrument used for 
the purpose of bringing hidden things within reach of the 
senses, so the brain is only an instrument whose use is to receive 
and retain those ideas which have been introduced into it by the 
senses, let its configuration be what it may. For if the brain 
could originate ideas, then it would be possible to conceive that 
a man could have ideas and a memory, who could nevertheless 
neither see, hear, taste, smell, nor feel. But to conceive this 
seems totally impossible. 

B. 

Well, let us suppose for the present that all this is so. I 
should now be very glad if you would fulfil your promise and 
make me as thoroughly acquainted with the nature of an idea 
as I am with the nature of the poker and tongs. 



114 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

A. 
I am quite ready now to redeem that promise. First, there- 
fore, let me ascertain what is the amount of your knowledge 
about this same poker. What is a poker ? 

B. 
An instrument to stir the fire with. 

A. 
Very true. But I did not ask you what is the use of a poker, 
neither had I any objection to its original name of " poker/ > 
and, therefore, I cannot see why you should think it necessary 
to discard this old name and substitute the new one of " instru- 
ment." However, if you like the new name better than the old 
one, I cannot object to it. Now, therefore, be good enough to 
tell me what is this instrument whose use is to stir the fire ? 

B. 
What is it ? Why, it is a long slender bar of iron. 

A, 
Another new name ! First it was a poker, then it was an 
instrument, and now it is a u bar of iron," whose'shape is " long 
and slender." But I did not ask you of what shape the poker 
is ! I ask for an e^g, and you give me a stone. I ask for 
cash payment, and you give me paper. I ask for the meaning 
of a name, and you only give me another name. But never 
mind, your stock of names will be exhausted presently. I still, 
therefore, want to know what is this poker, this " instrument," 
whose use is to stir the fire, this "iron-bar," whose shape is 
" long and slender" ? 

B. 
It is a metallic substance — a metal which we call iron. 

A. 
You die very hard, but you must die. What is this metal ? 

B. 
It is obtained from — 

A. 
I don't want to know whence it is obtained ! I only want to 
know what it is. 

B. 
Well then— all I can say more about it is, that it is one of 
the forms of matter. 



WORDS AND THINGS, 115 

A. 

Very good. Now, then, what is matter ? 

B. 
Matter is that of which the universe — 

A. 
Stop a minute. You say <e matter is that" — I want to know 
that what. What do you mean by that ? 

B. 
Why that something or other of which the universe ■ — 

A. 
That will do. If you were a witness, and I the cross-exam- 
ining counsel, I should say, " You may stand down, sir — that is 
my case, my Lord." And so, all you can tell me of the nature 
of a poker is, after all, that it is something or other — or, in one 
word, that it is a thing ! It should seem, therefore, if we can 
but find out the meaning of this word thing, we shall arrive at 
the root of the matter. For this word appears to be the nut 
which contains the kernel of which we are in search- — the casket 
in which the secret is locked up. It is an exceedingly curious 
word. We can scarcely utter a sentence without its assistance, 
expressed or understood. For in such ordinary phrases as 
" What have you got there V 3 " What is there in that box V 3 
" What news this morning V 3 This word thing is understood. 
Thing is the name of every thing. There is no thing which is 
not some thing. Every thing is a thing. What is matter? 
Matter is the name which we give to all those things which 
compose the substantial universe. And what are things ? Why, 
things are those things which we have agreed to call things. 
What an absurd jargon ! and yet this is the language which we 
are using every day. Only we endeavour to conceal the absurdity 
even from ourselves by avoiding the repetition of the word thing, 
and substituting some other word in its place, which, for the 
time, signifies the same thing. And thus it is that we cheat 
ourselves. Because we have satisfied the ear, we fancy we have 
satisfied the understanding. Thus, in answer to the question, 
" What are things V 3 a man would be ashamed to say, " things 
are the things which we call things." But he would not be at 
all ashamed to say, " things are the materials of which the 



116 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

universe is composed." Yet there is not an atom of difference 
in the sense of the two sentences. For, if you ask him what he 
means by the words (C materials" and " universe/' after ringing 
the changes upon some half dozen of names, he must end at 
last by calling them also by the name of things. But by using 
the words " materials" and " universe/' he avoids the disagree- 
able repetition of the word thing, which, if not avoided, would 
infallibly hint to him that he was talking nonsense. But we 
do not like to have it hinted to us that we talk nonsense — no, 
not even by our own understanding. So we escape from this 
disagreeable hint by avoiding the disagreeable repetition, and 
thus, having lulled our understanding to sleep, fancy we talk 
excellent sense, when, in fact, the sense or nonsense remains 
precisely the same, only being expressed in different words. 

The word thing signifies speech. In the Friesic dialect it is 
ding, dinge, and thing. In Low Dutch and German it is spelled 
ding. In Tatian's Harmony of the Gospels, in Low German, 
a. d. about 890 — in Notker's Translation of the Psalms into 
Alemannic, a. d. about 1020 — in Willeram's Paraphrase of the 
Canticle, in Francic, a. d. about 1070 — thing, ting, and ding, 
are all used to signify a discourse, a word, an agreement, a con- 
troversy. In its secondary use it signifies a judicial pleading, or 
law-suit. The Anglo-Saxon word thing-ian signifies to address, 
to speak ; as, il to Gode thingian," to pray to God, that is, to 
address one's self, in the language of prayer, to God. " Butan 
he thingian wille," except he will ask forgiveness. In Friesic, 
thingie means to plead at the bar — that is, to speak in favour of 
some one at the bar. The Anglo-Saxon word thing-ere, means 
a pleader, or plead-man, one who pleads, that is, who speaks in 
favour of another; and cyre-thing-ere means a church-speaker, 
i. e. a preacher. It '(thingere) also means an orator, that is, a 
speaker. In modern German, dingen means to higgle, to cheapen, 
to bandy words, as people do when they are making a bargain. 
In old German, thingon, dingon, githingon, (all manifestly the 
same words) meant to speak — to plead at the bar. In the Latin 
of the middle ages, thing -are meant to promise. In Danish 
tinge means to higgle, as in making a bargain. In Swedish 
tinga means to bespeak. In Icelandic thinga means to deliberate, 



WORDS AND THINGS. 117 

that is, to converse with one's own thoughts. In English, to 
ding means to bluster — to huff — " He huffs and dings at such a 
rate, because we will not spend the little we have left to get him 
the title and estate of Lord Strut." — Arbuthnofs History of 
John Bull. This word is in frequent use at the present day 
with the common people of England, in such expressions as 
this : " She dings it into my ears from morning till night. 

The Anglo-Saxon word gild means a payment of money ; it 
was also used to signify a society or club, in which payments of 
money were made for mutual support. Thus the same word 
was used, first, to signify the thing paid, and afterwards it was 
applied to designate those who paid it. This transference of the 
meaning of a word from one thing, to some other thing closely 
connected with it, is exceedingly common. Our word parlia- 
ment comes from the French word parler, which signifies speech, 
language, talk, and signifies therefore the talking assembly — or 
from the verb parler, to speak, to talk. But we lose sight of 
the idea of talking, (although that is the only idea the word can 
possibly signify) and, as we use it in ordinary conversation, we 
have only the idea of an assembly of men. But, unless these 
men met for the purpose of talking, they could no more be 
called a parliament than could an assembly of dumb animals. 
The propriety of the term depends entirely upon the fact of their 
meeting for the purpose of speaking. The word thing, which 
like the word parler signifies speech, is accordingly used in the 
same manner to designate an assembly of men whose business is 
to speak. And, therefore, the present Norwegian parliament 
is called the Stor-thing, that is, the great s^e^m^-assembly — 
literally the great talk. For two or three hundred years pre- 
viously to the year 1275, (when it became subject to Norway) 
Iceland had a parliament, and they called it Althing — that is, 
all-thing, or all-talk, because all freeholders had a right to speak 
in it. In Icelandic, thingi means a conversation or dialogue. 
The words thing, ding, ting, spelled as they were differently pro- 
nounced by different northern nations, also meant a council. 
But this is evidently only the secondary meaning. A council is 
only called a thing, because the sole business of a council is to 
talk, just as the word gild, whose primary meaning is a payment 



118 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

of money, was also used to signify those who meet to pay the 
money. Precisely for the same reason, it (the word thing) was 
used to designate a law-suit, a court of justice, a judgment, an 
agreement, a controversy, a consultation, a higgling, a promising, 
a supplication, an intercession, a mediator, a pleader — anything, 
in fact, necessarily involving the idea of talking as the principal 
object. As the original meaning of the word began to be 
gradually forgotten, it was used in a still wider sense. It then 
began to be used to signify any kind of business whatever, just 
as we now use the words business, affairs, concerns, &c, when 
we say, " I have got some business to transact" — " I have an 
affair to settle" — " That is my concern, not yours." But in 
almost all these uses of the words business, affair, concern, there 
is still preserved some notion of talking. For when the affair, 
or business, has nothing to do with talking, we do not use these 
words, but substitute the word work. " I have got some work 
to do," we say — or, " I have something to do first, and then I 
will go with you." We do not generally, in these cases, say, 
u I have some business to settle." 

As the Anglo-Saxon verb thingian, therefore, means to speak, 
so the Anglo-Saxon noun thing, still preserved in modern 
English, signifies speech, or that which is spoken, and was so 
used by our forefathers, and is, though we know it not, still 
used every day by us, in the self-same sense. 

Now whatever is spoken, that is speech ; and speech is what- 
ever is spoken. But to speak of a thing is to give it a name. 
We cannot speak of anything without giving it a name — without 
calling it something or other. To speak of a thing, and to call 
it by name, or to name it, are therefore precisely equivalent 
phrases ; and any word which is equivalent to any one of them, 
must, therefore, also be equivalent to the others, since things 
which are equal to the same, are equal to one another. 

I have said that when we wish to convert a noun into a verb, 
we do so by prefixing the word to. Thus, out of the noun 
noise, we get the verb to noise, as in the following passage : 
"He has deserted our party, and has threatened to noise it 
abroad that we meet in secret." The Anglo-Saxons performed 
the same operation by post-fixing, generally, ion, an, or gan. 



WORDS AND THiNGS. 119 

And thus, I believe, they got the verb thing-ian, to speak, out of 
the noun thing, speech, just as we get the verb to noise out of 
the noun noise — and just as they got the verb sprec-an, to 
speak, out of the noun spree, speech — and just as we, in fact, 
get our verb to speak out of the noun speech, which ought to be 
pronounced speek, seeing that the ch is but a comparatively 
modern substitution for the Anglo-Saxon c, (which was always 
hard, like k,) or the Icelandic (that is, old Danish) k. It is 
just as correct, therefore, to say to speech, as it is to say to 
speak — and equally so, to say a speek, as to say a speech — for 
the only difference between the two words is a slight compara- 
tively modern corruption in the spelling ; and the verb is merely 
the noun with the prefix to before it. Our word beseech was 
anciently pronounced and written beseke. It was so written by 
Lord Burleigh, so lately as the reign of Elizabeth : " Yet were I 
also unnatural if I should not take comfort thereby, and to 
beseke Almighty God to bless you with supply of such blessings 
as I cannot in this infirmytie yield you." — Wright's Private 
Correspondence of the Lord Treasurer Burghley. 

Perhaps the word speak comes originally from the Icelandic 
spekia, which signifies wisdom; but whose primitive meaning 
must manifestly have been speech. 

The Anglo-Saxon noun thing, therefore, stands in the same 
relation to their verb thingian, as our noun noise stands to the 
verb to noise, and as our noun speech stands to our verb to speak. 
Now the verb has been very properly defined to be " that which 
we speak," while the noun is "that about which we speak." 
As thingian, therefore, signifies the act of speaking, so thing 
signifies that about which we speak — in common language, that 
which we talk about — that which we name, or call by name — in 
one word, named. And when we use the expression, "the 
things," it is exactly the same as though we said " the named." 
And this brings me to the every- day signification, and to the 
every-day use of the word thing. When you ask me the 
question : " what is a chair V After having told you the uses 
of a chair, the shape of a chair, and how it is made ; in a word, 
after having enumerated all the accidents belonging to a chair- 
after having told you what are the effects of a chair upon my 



120 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

organs of sense — your question still remains unanswered. If 
then you press xne farther, all I can tell you is that it is " that 
which we talk about " — "that which we have given a name 
to" — -it is "a spoken of" — "a named"— in one word, "a 
thing." And the direct answer to your question, "what is a 
chair ?" and the only direct answer which any human being can 
give is this : " a chair is that which we call a chair." And thus 
the very nature of human speech defines the limits of human 
knowledge. We know nothing whatever of causes — we are only 
conversant with effects. The chair is a cause producing certain 
effects upon my organs of sense. I know the effects, because I 
can see and feel them, but I know nothing whatever of the 
cause, because I can neither see it nor feel it ; for the effects 
which I can see and feel, and which we call sensations, are in me 
and not in the chair. And after having detailed to you the 
accidents pertaining to a chair, all I can do more is to tell you 
its name. 

This word thing offers a beautiful illustration of what I have 
so often said, viz. that there is always some kind of connexion 
between the word and its meaning — some reason why a parti- 
cular word was used to designate some one particular thing and 
no other. There is no other word in the language which could 
supply the place of this word thing, unless it were some word 
having an equivalent meaning. It seems to be the only word 
which can possibly apply to all things equally well. There are 
many things which we can see, but cannot hear. There are 
many things which we can hear, but cannot see. There are 
many things which we can feel, but can neither see nor hear, as, 
for instance, odors and flavors. But there is no thing which 
we cannot talk about — and therefore a word signifying " that 
which we can talk about" is one of universal application, and 
exactly suited for the office it fulfils in language. 

The word thing, therefore, in all our reasonings, is used pre- 
cisely as the algebraist uses certain letters. When he is in 
search of an unknown quantity, he sets down a certain letter, 
and calls it the sign or name of the unknown quantity. He 
then goes on reasoning about this same letter as though it were 
the actual quantity sought. But it is manifest that until this 



WORDS AND THINGS. 121 

unknown quantity is found, and so becomes a known quantity, 
this letter is, in reality, the sign of nothing at all ; but is merely 
a tool necessarily used for the purpose of reasoning. If he 
succeed in finding the unknown quantity, the letter becomes the 
sign of something which is known. He then knows what the 
letter means. But until he has converted the unknown quantity 
into a known quantity, the letter is the sign of nothing, and 
is but to reasoning what the tongue is to talking, simply a 
necessary tool. So this word thing is only used as an algebraic 
sign to enable us to reason. It is a mere peg whereon to hang 
our talk. This word thing, like hundreds of others in daily use, 
is merely the sign of an unknown something. But if I ask you 
what is the meaning of any one of these words — these algebraic 
signs of unknown somethings — then you are bound, like the 
algebraist, to convert these unknown somethings into known some- 
things. You are bound to show me, that is, to place within the 
cognizance of one or more of my senses, that something which 
was intended to be represented by the word in question ; or else 
to translate the word into other words whose meaning I under- 
stand. When you have done this, your word has a meaning 
— but until you have done this, it is no more than a mere 
sign signifying nothing- — or, which is the same thing, signifying 
that which is unknown — and is no more capable of conveying 
knowledge than are the x, y, z of the algebraist. The same is 
true of all those words said to be the signs of abstract ideas. 

In the Latin language, the word which is equivalent to thing 
in English, is res. This word, like thing, was also used to 
signify any business or affair — -also, a lawsuit — and was of 
universal application as we now apply the word thing — and, like 
it, it means speech — being derived directly from the Greek word 
res-is, which signifies speech. 

The Greeks used the word chrema as an equivalent for our 
word thing. Chrema is derived from chrao, which was used to 
signify to deliver an oracular response, and to chresthen meant 
that which was spoken by an oracle, and " chresthai to manteio" 
signified to consult an oracle. Chrema was also used to signify 
any affair or business, and out of this word they made another, 
yiz. chrematizo, which meant to transact public business, to give 

K 



122 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

decisions, to issue edicts, &c. — also to consult, to confer with, 
to discuss, and to deliver an oracle. In all these uses of chrema, 
and of the words related to it, there is evidently involved the 
idea of speaking. 

The necessity of some such word as thing, signifying speech, 
or "that which we talk about,-" is strongly evinced by a 
foreigner, who very imperfectly understands our language. 
You will observe him, every now and then, when he does not 
recollect the English word which he requires, making use of the 
phrase "what you call" — -and then he stops. He uses this 
phrase, as we use the word thing, as a general term for every- 
thing whose particular name he has forgotten. But a single 
word is much more convenient than a phrase, and therefore we 
use the single word thing, instead of the phrases, " what we 
call," or, " that which is named." It is precisely for the same 
reason — one of convenience — that the algebraist uses a letter. 
He might, in his reasonings, use the phrase "unknown 
quantity." But this would occupy more room on his paper, 
and be very inconvenient in other respects. He therefore 
substitutes a single letter, never forgetting, however, that that 
letter is but the sign of the words " unknown quantity." The 
common people of England, however, even at the present day, 
do not always use this word thing, but the very phrases of which 
I have said it is the sign. They frequently say, "bring me 
my what d'ye call it," and other similar expressions. And it is 
to uneducated people that we must look, if we would clearly 
understand the natural uses of speech, and the natural structure 
of language ; for they have nothing to guide them but nature. 

As, then, all we know of external things is that they can 
produce in us what we call sensations, so all we know of these 
sensations is that we can what we call remember them ; and 
these remembered sensations are what have been very vaguely 
and improperly called ideas. I know of no other ideas than 
these. Nor can I conceive any others. Nor can I conceive any 
source from which any other ideas than these can be derived. 

What have been called ideas, therefore, I call remembered 
sensations. Not that it is a matter of any consequence by what 
term they are designated, so long as the term be clearly under- 



WORDS AND THINGS. 123 

stood by everybody, which is not so with the word idea. The 
word idea can be applied with no shadow of propriety to any 
other sensations than those which have been impressed upon 
our organs by visible objects, since the word ineans, and can 
only mean, that which we can see, or seem to see. But the 
ideas which we derive from visible objects, can with great 
propriety be called sensations, since they are derived to us 
through one of our organs of sense, viz. the eye. This term 
(remembered sensation) can be misunderstood by no one, and 
will be found to be entirely free from all those ambiguities 
produced by words which are used., not in their natural, but in 
a figurative sense. 

When a man sees an animal for the first time, and is told its 
name, that animal produces a certain effect, which we call a 
sensation, npon his organs of sight, and henceforth that sensation 
and that name become so associated together in the man's 
brain, that whenever that name is pronounced, that sensation is 
reproduced. But when I say reproduced, I do not speak 
literally — I am obliged to use such words as the language will 
afford — but I mean that there is then, on the utterance of that 
name, produced in the mind what we call a recollection or 
remembrance of the animal, or rather of the picture of the 
animal as originally impressed upon the retina of the eye. I do 
not pretend to know what this remembrance is— I know no 
more what it is than I do what matter is. I only know that it 
is a something which we talk about — and to that something I 
propose to give the name of remembered sensation ; in order 
that, by using a term so simple and so universally understood, 
all possible ambiguity may be avoided. There can be no 
ambiguity in the use of this term, because even instincts- — that 
is, those inward motions, prickings, or impulses (which are the 
meanings of the word instinct), will range equally well under 
this appellation. 

Words, then, I say, are the names of these remembered 
sensations. But let me not be misunderstood. A remembered 
sensation is still a sensation. Perhaps, therefore, it would be 
more proper to say that words are the signs of sensations, and 
that their use is to cause those sensations to be reproduced — 

k 2 



124 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

that is, what we call remembered. Thus it is. Certain natural 
objects produce certain effects upon our organs, which we call 
sensations. We give names to these sensations. The name 
and the sensation (each with each) become so associated 
together, that whenever the name of a sensation is pronounced, 
the sensation is immediately, what we call, remembered — that 
is, rememoried — (for the b is a corrupt interpolation) — that is, 
perceived over again. 

I look upon the brain as a chamber filled with innumerable 
minute beds, in each of which beds there lies a little cluster of 
sleeping sensations. The office of words is to wake up one or 
more of these little clusters of sensations, and cause them to 
show themselves from under the bed clothes— that is, to 
re-impress the senses. 

If this be the only office of words, (and I believe it is) then it 
is manifest that words can be of no earthly use, (as words) 
unless they be associated in the mind of the hearer, directly or 
indirectly, with one or other of these groups of sleeping sensa- 
tions, and have by virtue of that association, when pronounced, 
the power of waking them, and causing them to re-impress the 
senses. The meaning of a word, therefore, is that sensation (or 
sensations) which is brought to the recollection of a man when 
he hears that word pronounced. And if it do not bring to his 
remembrance any sensation (or sensations), then, for that man, 
that word has, and can have, no meaning whatever. But the 
word may be associated in the mind of the speaker with certain 
sensations, which sensations he wishes to call to the recollection 
of the hearer. But then it is the speaker only who means — he 
(the speaker) means to excite in his hearer's mind such and 
such sensations, and he uses a word for that purpose. But the 
word does not effect that purpose; and therefore the word has 
no meaning. In order to transfer to the word the meaning 
which is in the speaker's mind, it is necessary that the word 
should be associated with the same sensations in the mind of 
the hearer with which it is associated in the mind of the speaker. 
Then the word has a meaning — that is, it has acquired the 
power of a mirror, in which the hearer can see, as it were 
reflected, the intention or meaning of the speaker. Or the 



WORDS AND THINGS. 1£5 

meaning of a word may be illustrated this way. Suppose every 
man to carry in his hand a little magic mirror. And suppose 
that certain articulate sounds,, called words, have the power, 
when uttered, to cause to be reflected in this mirror certain 
reflected images or pictures, Then I say, that whatever images 
are reflected in the mirror by virtue of any word when pro- 
nounced, those images are the meaning of the word. When- 
ever, therefore, I hear a word pronounced, I look into my 
mirror, and if I see no image reflected therein, then I say, that 
word, for me, has no meaning. And this is what I recommend 
every man to do when he reads — viz. whenever he meets with 
any important word, to pause a moment, and look into his 
magic mirror. If he can always see there a clearly defined 
image or picture, let him read on. But if he see none, then as 
those words, and consequently all that is written about those 
words, must necessarily be to him unintelligible, let him close 
the book, either as one which deficient education has rendered 
him incapable of understanding, or else as one containing a 
definite number of words, laid out into lines and paragraphs, for 
the amusement of those readers who are satisfied with words, 
without much troubling their heads about their meanings. 

If I have given a correct account of human knowledge, its 
origin, its amount; and have explained truly what have been 
called ideas, and defined justly the use and purpose of words, 
and the manner in which they operate so as to become instru- 
ments for the communication of knowledge — then it follows that 
all words must be, directly or indirectly, merely the names of 
sensations, since the knowledge of sensations is the whole 
amount of all we know ; and since the sole use of words is to 
cause these sensations to be remembered. 

But it has been said by numberless writers that there are 
certain words which are not the signs of any sensations what- 
ever. But which yet have the power of modifying the signifi- 
cations of the words, and of defining certain minute distinctions, 
and of giving a neatness, and facility, and precision to speech. 
Such words are what are called conjunctions, adverbs, preposi- 
tions, articles, &c. &c. I will not stop to inquire how words 
without meaning can contribute to the facility and precision of 



126 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

speech, nor how they can have the power of defining minnte dis- 
tinctions. But if there be any such words as these invented for 
these purposes, then they are not necessary to language, but only 
improvements and embellishments ; and there must, therefore^ 
have been a time when these words were not in use. But there is 
no known language, however barbarous, which is without them. 
And this alone, I think, is fully enough to prove their absolute 
necessity. Again, if they were invented for mere convenience,, 
and not from necessity, when and by whom were they first 
invented and used ? Not by the grammarians, for they do not 
invent new words, but only, taking the words of a language as 
they find them in use, distribute them into classes, and give rules 
for their right employment — not, however, according to their 
own arbitrary dictation, but as they find them actually used by 
the people who speak the language. But it is, I presume, quite 
inconceivable that a set of naked savages, fully occupied, as they 
must be, in attending to their natural and more pressing wants, 
should seat themselves in grave conclave for the purpose of 
improving and embellishing their language. And yet this must 
have been the case, not only with one tribe, but with all, since 
all known languages have them. 

But the truth is, these words are absolutely essential to the 
existence of every language. The mistake has been with the 
early grammarians, who did not understand them; and this 
error has been propagated from grammarian to grammarian, 
from teacher to pupil, ever since ; until Home Tooke explained 
the mistake. The ridiculous names given to what are called the 
parts of speech, are a strong proof of the ignorance of gram- 
marians with regard to the nature and use of speech, as well as 
of the manner in which men seek to cover their ignorance by 
means of words which convey no meaning. What did they call 
these parts of speech ? They called them, and still call them, 
by the following Latin names : the verb, the noun, the adjective, 
the adverb, the pronoun, the conjunction, the preposition, the 
interjection, and article. Some grammarians, however, reckon a 
great many more than these. I have given you the Latin 
names of the parts of speech, but as you do not understand 
Latin, I will translate them. In plain English, then, the parts 



WORDS AND THINGS. 127 

of speech, are, according to modern grammarians, the word, the 
name, the added-to, the to-verb, the for-name, the joining-with, 
the put-before, the thrown-between, and the little-limb ; and then 
there is, you know, the definite little-limb, and the indefinite 
little-limb. 

B. 

And is it to learn such jargon as this that we send our 
children to breathe the unwholesome air of a crowded school- 
room, during the best years of their youth — the only time 
that most of them can be allowed for the acquirement of 
knowledge ? No wonder the advancement of knowledge, 
as it regards the great mass of the people, should be so 
miserably slow, notwithstanding the means of education have 
been so multiplied ! But why do English grammarians resort 
to Latin names for these so-called parts of speech? Could 
they not have found names for them in their own tongue ? Or 
could they not have translated the Latin names for the benefit 
of English readers? 

A. 

No — because every one would then have understood the 
meaning of these names, and would have wanted to know why 
these particular names were given to these particular sorts . of 
words — and the absurdity would have become manifest to all. 
If the article were called by the English name little-limb, 
instead of the Latin word which signifies little-limb, viz. article, 
there is scarcely an infant who would not be asking his papa 
why the word the is called a little-limb — a question which papa 
would find it extremely difficult to answer. But the word 
article conveys to the child's mind no meaning whatever, and 
therefore he inquires nothing about it; because, being a word to 
him destitute of any meaning, it excites no curiosity. But the 
word little-limb would convey a meaning to his mind — it would 
remind him that that was the name which he had heard given 
to his own legs and arms, and this would necessarily lead him 
to inquire, why the same name which was given to his own legs 
and arms should be given to two particular words, and no 
others. It would naturally surprise him that things so very 
different should be called by the same name. As with children, 



128 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

so it is with many grown persons. If the article were called by 
its English name of little-limb, do you not think that thousands 
of persons would be led to inquire why it was called by so strange 
a name, who now never think anything at all about it. I think 
the very strangeness of the name would excite curiosity. But, 
as it is, not knowing the meaning of the word, they take it for 
granted that it has a-meaning, and that that meaning is a very 
proper one, and therefore they never think, nor inquire any- 
thing at all about the matter. 

Oh ! what a prolific source of error is this practice of taking 
things for granted ! ! 

B. 
You have said that grammarians have not understood the 
nature and meaning of those little words called conjunctions,, 
adverbs, prepositions, &c. ; but that Home Tooke has explained 
them. How has he effected this ? 

A. 
By showing that they are all either nouns or verbs. Home 
Tooke, by a process of a priori reasoning on the nature of speech 
and the human mind, arrived at the conviction that all the sorts 
of words which are necessary for the communication of ideas 
are two only— nouns and verbs— and that therefore all the words 
in all languages must belong to one or other of these classes . 
And he further convinced himself by the same process of reason- 
ing, that there could not by possibility be in rerum natura 
any such things as what are called abstract nouns or abstract 
ideas. At this time he was, as he himself tells us, " shame- 
fully ignorant of etymology," and "did not know even the 
characters of the Anglo-Saxon or Gothic language." It was 
not, therefore, the study of etymology which led Home Tooke 
to adopt his system of language, but reasons derived from the 
nature and functions of speech itself — reasons of infinitely 
greater force than any which are derivable from etymology. It 
was not till years after he had formed his system, that he 
sought in etymology confirmatory evidence of the truth of his 
system — that system which he had previously formed from a 
general consideration of what words must necessarily be from 
their own nature and purpose. Could it be proved, therefore^ 



WORDS AND THINGS. 129 

that every etymology which he has given is erroneous, that of 
itself would not be sufficient to overturn his system. Some 
part probably of the evidence which he has chosen in order to 
prove that his system is right, may fail to do so. But if the 
whole failed to prove his system right, that of itself would be 
no proof that it is wrong. The evidence which I call to rebut 
any charge against me may fail to establish my innocence. But 
that does, by no means, prove me guilty. Had Home Tooke 
rested his system of language solely, or even chiefly, upon 
evidence drawn from etymology, then to have overturned his 
evidence would have gone very far towards overturning his 
system. But Home Tooke has not done this. Proofs drawn 
from the study of etymology are not at all necessary to support 
his system. It is built on a much more solid foundation — for 
it stands erect and impregnable, based on the nature of things. 
Home Tooke came to the conclusion that language is what he 
says it is, not because etymology shows it to be so, but because 
it is not possible that it should be otherwise. It is to be 
greatly regretted that he did not publish the particular process 
of reasoning which conducted him to this conclusion, but 
contented himself with merely stating that such had been the 
fact. But he knew how much greater attention is generally 
paid to particular instances than to that infinitely more weighty 
kind of evidence, general reasoning — owing, I suppose, either 
to the incapacity of the multitude, or else to their disinclination 
for thinking. Every one can instantly perceive the force of a 
particular instance, but to perceive the weight of general 
reasoning requires long, patient, and clear-headed thinking, 
and a thorough understanding of the subject. But I will 
repeat to you Home Tooke's own words on this subject. " If 
I have been misled, it most certainly was not by etymology, of 
which I confess myself to have been shamefully ignorant at the 
time when these my notions of language were first formed. 
Though even that previous ignorance is now a circumstance 
which confirms me much in my opinion concerning these 
conjunctions : for I knew not even the characters of the language 
from which any particular proofs of the English conjunctions 
were to be drawn. And (notwithstanding Lord Monboddo's 



130 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

discouraging sneer) it was general reasoning a priori, that led 
me to the particular instances ; not particular instances to the 
general reasoning. This etymology, against whose fascination 
you would have me guard myself, did not occur to me till many 
years after my system was settled; and it occurred to me suddenly 
in this manner: — "If my reasoning concerning these conjunctions 
is well founded, there must then be in the original language from 
which the English (and so of all other languages) is derived, 
literally such and such words bearing precisely such and such sig- 
nifications. I was the more pleased with this suggestion because 
I was entirely ignorant even of the Anglo-Saxon and Gothic 
characters, and the experiment presented to me a mean, either 
of disabusing myself from error (which I greatly feared), or of 
obtaining a confirmation sufficiently strong to encourage me to 
believe (what every man knowing anything of human nature 
will always be very backward in believing of himself) that I had 
really made a discovery. For, if upon trial I should find in an 
unknown language precisely those very words, both in sound, 
and signification, and application, which in my perfect ignorance 
I had foretold; what must I conclude, but either that some 
demon had maliciously inspired me with the spirit of true pro- 
phecy in order the more deeply to deceive me; or that my 
reasoning on the nature of language was not fantastical. The 
event was beyond my expectation ; for I instantly found, upon 
trial, all my predictions verified. This has made me presump- 
tuous enough to assert it universally. Besides that I have since 
traced these supposed unmeaning, indeclinable conjunctions, 
with the same success, in many other languages besides the 
English. And because I know that the generality of minds 
receive conviction more easily from a number of particular 
instances than from the surer but more abstracted arguments of 
general proof; if a multiplicity of uncommon avocations and 
engagements (arising from a very peculiar situation) had not 
prevented me, I should long before this have found time enough 
from my other pursuits, and from my enjoyments, (amongst 
which idleness is not the smallest) to have shown clearly and 
satisfactorily, the origin and precise meaning of each of these 
pretended unmeaning, indeclinable conjunctions, at least in all 
the dead and living languages of Europe." 



WORDS AND THINGS. 131 

But Home Tooke has been greatly misunderstood. First, 
it is an egregious error to imagine that he based his system of 
language on proofs drawn from the science of etymology. 
Secondly, it is a still more grievous error to suppose that the 
teaching of correct etymology formed any, even the slightest part 
of his ultimate design. Home Tooke was not the man to 
amuse either himself or the world with baubles, which etymology, 
per se, can only be considered. " I have nothing to do with the 
learning of mere curiosity/' says he, " nor am any further con- 
cerned with etymology than as it may serve to get rid of the 
false philosophy received concerning language and the human 
understanding/' Home Tooke's Diversions of Purley are 
merely the means to an end. Had he broadly avowed that end, 
Mr. Erskine must have fought in his favor another battle with 
the Attorney General of those days, and the probability is that 
he would have fought his second battle with a less brilliant 
success than attended his first; and that the fate of Galileo 
would have been re-enacted in the person of Home Tooke. It 
was against the rank and luxuriant tree of human prejudice that 
he directed his attack. But he did not lay an axe to its root — ■ 
he dared not do so — but he placed a worm there — a worm that 
shall do the work of the axe — not indeed so swiftly, but not a 
whit the less infallibly. The Diversions of Purley are simply 
and merely a foundation for a future superstructure, " I know/' 
says he, "for what building I am laying the foundation." And 
he concludes the work with these remarkable words : "we will 
leave off here for the present. It is tiue that my evening is 
now fully come, and the night fast approaching. Yet, if we 
have a tolerably lengthened twilight, we may still perhaps find 
time enough for a farther conversation on this subject; and 
finally (if the times will bear it) to apply this system of language to 
all the different systems of metaphysical (i. e. verbal) imposture." 
And elsewhere he says : " but the importance rises higher when 
we reflect upon the application of words to metaphysics. And 
when I say metaphysics, you will be pleased to remember that 
all general reasoning, all politics, law, morality, and divinity, are 
merely metaphysical." These passages are surely sufficiently 
remarkable, and sufficiently provative that he considered etymo- 



132 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

logy merely as a stepping-stone towards something of infinitely 
greater importance. I believe there are very few persons who 
have made themselves thoroughly masters of Home Tooke's 
theory of language. But of those few, there are still fewer who 
perceive the mighty consequences, to whole hosts of our long and 
dearly cherished prejudices, which must inevitably result from 
that theory, if the true one 

B. 

But if I have understood you rightly, you have said that all 
words, in all languages, are the signs or names of sensations ; 
and that therefore there are, in fact, no other words, in any 
language, excepting those which are, properly speaking, nouns— 
that is, the names of sensations. Yet you have just told me 
that Home Tooke admitted still another sort of words, viz. 
verbs, 

A. 

You will please to remember that Home Tooke^s work was 
never completed. In the conversation published under the 
title of Diversions of Purley, he accounted for all words by 
reducing them all to nouns and verbs. But he promised in 
some future conversation to account for the verb also. Had he 
lived to hold that future conversation I am persuaded that, as he 
had begun by reducing all words to verbs and nouns, he would 
have ended by reducing them every one, verbs and all, to nouns 
only. His opinion manifestly was that all verbs are nouns, and 
that what are called the participles, tenses, moods, numbers, and 
persons of verbs, are merely two nouns coalesced together, the 
original meaning of the second of which has been lost sight of; 
just as the Latin and Greek pronouns have, from long use, 
coalesced together, so as to be no longer distinguishable, except- 
ing to the etymologist — as, for instance, in the verb amo, — the 
final o being nothing more than a fragment of the pronoun ego 
(that is, I) coalesced with the verb, and which time and long 
usage has caused to appear part of the verb itself, although 
in reality, it is not so. That this was his opinion, every attentive 
reader cannot fail to perceive, from many passages which occur 
while speaking of the adjective and participle. But if it be still 
doubted, I conceive the following quite sufficient to set all 



WORDS AND THINGS. 133 

doubt at rest. "Notwithstanding R. Johnson's confident 
assertion that nobody would say so, I maintain/' says Home 
Tooke, "that the adjective is equally and altogether as much 
the name of a thing, as the noun substantive. And so I say 
of all words whatever. For that is not a word which is not 
the name of a thing. Every word being a sound significant, 
must be a sign; and if a sign, the name of a thing." And 
again : (C a verb is (as every word also must be) a noun." 

But it was not essential to the superstructure he intended to 
rear to proceed farther than he did. Had it been so, he would 
not have deferred his account of the verb to any future con- 
versation. And this forms another proof that etymology, per se, 
formed no part of the grand object of the Diversions of Purley. 
Neither does it form any part of mine. 

But Home Tooke' s authority is not necessary to prove that 
all verbs are but nouns — that is, names of things. Nor would 
I pin my faith upon the sleeve even of Home Tooke if my own 
reason did not assure me that there were sufficient grounds for 
doing so. There wants no authority but that of common sense 
to show that all verbs are but nouns, and are therefore the 
names of things. When we want a verb which we have not got 
in the language, what do we do ? Do we sit down to invent 
one ? Surely not — but we instantly take a noun, and some- 
times by the addition of another word, and sometimes without 
any addition or alteration of any kind, we coin it into a verb at 
once to suit our purpose. Ship is a noun substantive, and man 
is a noun substantive. But in the following sentence ship, 
without any addition or alteration of any kind, becomes a verb. 
ct The British government every year ship men to the colonies." 
Here ship is a verb, and men is a substantive. But let ship and 
men change places, and ship becomes a noun again, and men 
becomes a verb. Thus : " The British government man ships 
to the colonies." However used, these words man and ship are 
equally nouns — that is, the names of things — and their office is 
to excite in the mind the pictures of the things of which they 
are the signs. In the one instance — that wherein ship is what 
we call a noun — the word excites in the mind the picture of a 
ship, and nothing more. In the other instance — that wherein 



134 CONNEXION BETWEEN 



is what we call a verb — it likewise excites in the mind the 
picture of a ship — but besides this, it does something more — it 
represents the ship now as bearing a particular relation to other 
things — it has become now the dwelling of a number of men, 
who form its cargo — over whom it exercises a certain kind of 
influence — bearing them across the water, the ship itself being 
influenced by other men not mentioned, viz., the crew. And so 
of the word man. When, by a change of place merely, man 
becomes the verb, then it also excites in the mind something more 
than the mere picture of several men. The relation between 
the men and the ship is now changed — the men are now viewed, 
not as men merely, but as men employed in a determinate man- 
ner in execution of the necessary duties of sailors — and it is now 
the men which influence the ship, and are the cause of its going 
to the colonies, and not the ship which influences the men. In 
the former instance, it is the ship which constitutes the means 
which enables the men to get to the colonies — in the latter, it is 
the men which enable the ship to get there, viz., by controlling 
and regulating her movements. In the one instance, the ship is 
the agent, and the men the patients — in the other, the men are 
the agents, and the ship the patient. In both instances, the 
words ship and men are manifestly the names of things — that is, 
nouns. They are, in both modes of using them, exactly the 
same unchanged words. But in the one use of them they 
signify things, and nothing more — in the other, they signify 
things, and something more — that is, what we call certain par- 
ticular, definite relations — in two words, added circumstances ; 
and these added circumstances are indicated solely by the man- 
ner of using them, and not by any change in the word, or in the 
nature of the word itself. Thus we say : fire the beacon — light 
the lamp — chalk the floor — water the plants — -spur the horse — - 
whip the dog, &c. &c. Fire, light, chalk, water, spur, whip, are 
manifestly nouns converted into what we call verbs — that is, 
made to signify certain added circumstances of relation in addi- 
tion to the things of which they are the acknowledged signs. 

At other times we coin a noun into a verb, by adding to the 
noun certain other words, the meanings of which have, from the 
lapse of ages, become at least doubtful, if not entirely lost ; 



WORDS AND THINGS. 135 

such as the words ing, en, ed, to. But it is clear that the mere 
addition of these monosyllables cannot alter in any way the 
meaning of the noun whereto they are added, excepting only by 
putting them into a condition to signify these added circum- 
stances above-mentioned, in addition to that picture of things of 
which they were before and still are the names or signs. Thus 
from the noun ship, we have to ship ; from man, to man ; noise, 
to noise ; stable, to stable, stabled; boot, to boot, booted; spur, 
to spur, spurred; horse, to horse, horsed; house, to house, 
housed. Paper, to paper, papered; plaster, to plaster, plastered ; 
brick, to brick up, bricked up ; dish, to dish up, dished up ; milk, 
to milk, milked; rain, to rain, rained; fire, to fire, firing ; lock, 
to lock, locking ; star, to star, starring — Miss So and So is now 
starring at such and such a country town — salt, to salt, salted; 
pepper, to pepper, peppered, &c. In short, whenever we want a 
verb, we never hesitate a single instant, but take a noun and 
coin it into a verb on the spot ; and this simple plan, so simple 
that nothing can be simpler, is equally adopted by the educated 
and uneducated alike. We never dream for a single instant of 
sitting down to manufacture a verb. If, then, this very simple 
plan be that which we adopt now, why should we suppose that 
any more difficult and more complicated plan was ever adopted, 
at any time ? If this simple plan be sufficient now, surely it 
was sufficient to serve the purpose of a set of uneducated and 



The author has received a letter, signed X. Y., desiring to know what is the 
meaning of the word minx, and why it is applied to a bold, forward girl. 
Minx is a corruption of the Low-German word minsk, which signifies mannish. 
By an exceedingly common transposition, the sk have been transposed into ks, 
for the greater facility of pronunciation ; and the word ought to be spelled, as 
Scott spells it, minks. But the sound of Jcs being frequently expressed in our 
language by x, this latter letter has been used instead of Jcs, but very improperly. 
In the Anglo-Saxon, the same word is spelled menise; in the Moeso-Gothic, 
mannish; in Danish, menneske ; in Swedish, menniska; in Icelandic, man- 
nesMa; in Modern-German, it is mensch ; from which we get our vulgar word 
wench. The word minks, therefore, that is, mannish, is applied with great 
propriety to girls of a bold, forward, mannish, that is, unfeminine, temper and 
bearing. 

I do not know any dictionary wherein the application of this word is 
accounted for, or its origin explained. 



136 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

naked savages, who did not pretend to understand anything 
beyond the plain and evident objects of sense ! It is perfectly 
monstrous to suppose that a wild man of the woods could, by 
any possibility, coin a word in order to make it the sign of 
something which he could neither see, hear, taste, smell, nor 
feel — as, for instance, action, motion, time, space, power, influence, 
come, go, fly, have, he, &c. &c. It will bear a question whether 
he could coin any word. It will bear a question whether a 
whole college of the most learned men could, by their united 
labors and talents, coin one single entirely new word, which 
should become current through the country, and incorporated 
in the language. It will bear a question whether there ever 
was, in any age, an entirely new word invented. It will bear a 
question whether all the primitive words of all the languages of 
the earth (which are, comparatively, extremely few), be not 
merely imitations of natural sounds, such as the cries of animals, 
the creaking of trees, the rushing of torrents, the snapping of 
boughs, and numberless other natural sounds peculiar to the 
forest. The child that is born deaf is also dumb, and this of 
itself goes far to prove that we get all our variety of sounds 
through the ear alone; and that we can utter no sound that we 
have not heard before. A new word is a new sound ; and let 
any man try to enunciate an entirely new articulate sound, and 
he will instantly perceive how difficult a matter it is to invent a 
new word. In the Greek, Latin, Italian, French, English, and 
other cognate languages, there are many words which are now 
the names of things which can be clearly shown to be mere 
imitations, by the human voice, of natural sounds. As a 
familiar instance, in our own language, we have the word 
cuckold, which is merely the Italian word cuculo, (which means 
cuckow) in an English dress ; and ought to be written cuckow-ed. 
From the Italian noun cuculo, we have coined our verb, to cucol, 
(without the terminating d,) " as the common people* rightly 

* It is amongst the entirely uneducated people of the provinces that the 
true pronunciation of any language will always be longest preserved, and in 
the greatest purity. They remain the longest uninfluenced by fashion, and 
unadulterated with foreigners. They have neither the means nor the motives 
of change. The corrupt pronunciation of the city may even still be frequently 



WORDS AND THINGS. 137 

pronounce it, and as the verb was formerly, and should still be 
written." Here, then, we have first of all a natural cry — 
cuckoiv ! Then this natural cry becomes the name of a bird. 
Next, from a peculiar habit of this bird, this natural cry becomes 
the parent of the Latin noun cuculus, of the Italian noun cuculo, 
of the English verb to cucol, and finally of the English noun 
cuckold — that is, cuckowed. 

Another reason why I believe all words to be nouns — -that is 
the names of things, is, because these nouns, variously used, and 
variously combined, are all that is absolutely necessary for the 
communication of knowledge. A third reason (and a very 
strong one — perhaps the strongest of all) is derived from a 
consideration of the nature and natural condition of man, and 
of the nature and purpose of speech. A fourth reason I derive 
from reflection on the vast numbers of verbs which no one will 
think of denying are formed directly from nouns — which are, in 
fact, nothing but nouns with a slight alteration in the termina- 
tion, or by the simple addition of a prefix or suffix. Thus, in 
the Greek, from hippos, a horse, comes hippeuo, I ride; from 

corrected by the true pronunciation of the country village. What we call 
kettle;, the village house-maid (unless, like the city house-maid, she too has at 
length purchased a Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary), calls kittle; and, so 
calling it, she calls it by its right name, which is cytel, the Anglo-Saxon c 
being always hard like k. The word, therefore, should be spelled kytel, and 
pronounced kyttel, as the villagers do still pronounce it. The villager's word axe, 
also, is equally correct with our word ask ; for in the mother-tongue, the word 
was axian as well as ascian. Our word neither, (which Walker absurdly 
pronounces neether) the villager pronounces as though it were written 
narther, or naivther. And the villager is right ; for the true spelling of the 
word is nathor, nauther, and nawther ; and it was so written until an aping 
fashion, and a mincing affectation corrupted it. There is no such word in the 
language as neither, nor ever was. To Walker's Dictionary belongs the honor 
of. giving corrupt pronunciation a wider range, and introducing it even into the 
provinces. There is scarcely a kitchen-maid now who does not buy a 
Walker's Dictionary, out of which she teaches herself to "talk dictionary," 
and teaches her lover to "talk dictionary too." "John," says she, "you 
must not say nawther — it is vulgar — you must say neether." If John should 
ask who told her so, she would reply, "Walker's Dictionary;" and John 
would not have the wit to ask in his turn, " who told Mr. Walker so ?" 
This work is greatly inferior to most other English lexicons, and ought to be 
called, par excellence, the kitchen-maid's dictionary, or milliner's vade- 
mecum. 

L 



138 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

potos, drink, comes potao, I drink ; from thrinkos, a wall, 
comes thrinkoein, to wall np ; from time, honor, comes timao, I 
honor ; from philos, a friend, comes philoo, I love ; from algos, 
grief or pain, comes alguno, I grieve or pain another. That is, 
alg (pain), lion (him), ego (I), pain him I, or I pain him — the 
three words having, in the lapse of ages, and from carelessness 
and rapidity in speaking, been finally contracted, and coalesced 
into one — thus alghonego, algonego, algoneo, algono, alguno. 
In the Latin, from honor, honor, comes honoro, I honor ; from 
labor, labor, comes laboro, I labor; from lac or lacte, milk, 
comes lacto, I feed with milk, I suckle — that is, lacte, (milk), 
ego (I), milk I, or I milk, (I give milk) — which time and 
rapid utterance have caused to coalesce thus : lacfego, lacteo, 
lacto. It is the unquestionable effect of time to contract and 
shorten words, and to cause two or more to coalesce into one. 
From flamma, a flame, comes flammo, I flame ; from pugnus, a 
fist, comes pugno, I fight — that is, I fist — from equus, a horse, 
comes equito, I ride, that is, I horse ; from miles, a soldier, comes 
milito, I make war, or I war against, or I play the soldier. 
But enough — the instances of this manner of forming verbs in 
the Greek and Latin are almost numberless. In modern 
English I have already mentioned several. It is not necessary 
to enumerate any more. I will be content with asserting that 
there is no one word in the English language, whether noun, 
pronoun, adverb, conjunction, preposition, interjection, or any 
other, which may not be readily coined, and which has not, at 
some time or other, been actually coined, in conversation, into a 
verb by this simple plan. Thus we say: "but me no buts" — - 
and I frequently hear boys in the streets say one to another, 
while amusing themselves with jumping over posts : " Jack, Fll 
bet you a penny I can over this," pointing to a post. Here 
the word over is a verb. Now, I say, that the uncultivated 
savage, as far as it regards language, is the exact prototype of 
these rude, uneducated boys, and that they would, in using 
words, pursue the same plan which is pursued by these boys, 
and other uneducated people. I have given you instances of 
this practice of using nouns as verbs, in modern English, Greek, 
and Latin. Nothing could be easier than to fill a quire of 



WORDS AND THINGS. 



139 



paper with similar instances from each of these languages ; and 
I could, without any difficulty, select an equal number of 
instances from three or four other different languages. I shall 
content myself with selecting a few instances from our fine old 
mother-tongue, in order to show that this same practice was in 
use among barbarians, as well as among polished people. Thus 
the Anglo-Saxons converted 



NOUNS. 

Spor — a foot-print 
Spathl — saliva 
Spell — speech 
Stqf — a staff 

Stoen — a stone 

Stan — a rock 

Wyl or will — well, spring, 

or fountain 
Boga — a bow 
Cceg — a key 
Bysn — a pattern 

Egle — a thorn 
Dyne — a noise 
Aid — fire 
Sweg — sound 
Swefn — a dream 
Steorra — star 
Weg — a way 



into 



VERBS. 

Spir-ian — to track 
Spatl-ian — to froth 
Spell-ian — to declare 
Staf-ian — to point, to di- 
rect 
Stcen-an — to stone 
Stand-an — to stand* 
Wyll-an or will-an — to 

willf 
Bug -an — to bow or bend 
Cmgg-ian — to lock 
Bysn-ian — -to set an ex- 
ample 
Egl-ian — to feel pain 
Dyn-an — to make a noise 
JEl-an — to light 
Sweg-an — -to sound 
Swefn-ian — to dream 
Steor-an — to steer 
Weg-an — to carry 



* To assume the erect and firm position of the rock — the d is interpolated 
to lengthen the first syllable, and so convey an idea of firmness. 

f This origin of our word will may easily be disputed. I firmly believe it 
to be the true one nevertheless. The manner in which the will or wish to do 
a thing arises in the mind from a .hidden, secret, and mysterious cause or 
source, to us wholly unknown, and makes itself felt, is not unlike the manner 
in which the water of a well or spring arises from the secret and mysterious 
chambers of the earth, and makes itself visible. There is still in our language 
an obsolete word willy, signifying willing. This willy is the Anglo-Saxon word 
wil-lic — that is, wil-like, or like a will — or, as I believe, like a wyl, well or 
spring. We say : " I will do it willingly'''' — that is, of my own accord, without 
fee or force, as water wells from a spring. 



140 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

As we make verbs out of nouns, so we make nouns out of 
verbs. Thus the dog-Latin verb affidavit, which signifies he or 
she has promised, we use as a noun. We say : " he has made 
his affidavit" The Roman Catholics say : " I have said three 
aves and five credos, which means : " I have said three all-kails 
and five I believes" In the taverns of London, the waiters call 
a certain measure of brandy, " a go of brandy." Formerly 
there were lotteries called little go's. There is now a carriage 
called a fly. The Americans say: "Well, I never heard the 
beat of that." He has put his imprimatur to it — that is, " he 
has put his let it be printed to it — such and such are my tenets, 
that is, my he holds — the landlord holds his audit to-morrow, 
that is, his he hears — such a man's conversation consists of 
nothing but ipse dixits, that is, he hath said its — it has received 
the king's fiat, or the king's veto, that is, the king's let it be 
done, or the king's / forbid — I'll have a walk — I'll have a swim 
• — I'll take a run — let us take a drive — let us take a ride — are 
you going to the hunt ? — have you taken breakfast ? — turn the 
horse into the paddock and let him enjoy the luxury of a roll or 
a wallow — whose throw is it ? at dice — whose play is it ? at 
billiards — whose move is it ? at chess — these, and numberless 
others, are all instances of what we call verbs used as what we 
call nouns. They are instances of the abbreviation of whole 
sentences into one word for the sake of dispatch. They are 
single words used in the place of several words, for the sake of 
brevity. The farmer says : " I will crop that field with wheat" 
■ — which means that he will take such steps as shall enable him 
to cut, from the surface of the field, wheat, next year. He also 
says : " I expect good crops" — which means that he expects 
that that which he cuts from the surface of his fields will be 
abundant. In these two sentences, the word crop is both noun 
and verb, but, in both cases, it means the same thing, viz. that 
which is cut from the surface of the earth. 

In short, there is no word, in any language, which is not a 
noun, or name, and the sign of one or more sensations, either 
directly or indirectly — that is, either directly or by being the 
sign of other words which are the direct signs of sensible objects. 
It is true that the lapse of ages has rendered it quite impossible 



WORDS AND THINGS, 141 

to trace many of our verbs up to the sensible object which they 
originally represented. In many instances the particular sensible 
objects originally represented by many of our verbs, was for- 
gotten before the language became a written one. Still these 
words are, in every instance, the signs of sensations or pictures ; 
and it is the same with what are absurdly called abstract terms. 
Thus, if you desire a painter to embody his idea of humility, he 
will have no difficulty at all in doing so. He would put upon 
his canvass, without the smallest hesitation, the representation 
of one person kneeling or prostrate on the ground before another 
person sitting or standing — or something similar to this. Now, 
then, if any person ask me the meaning of the word humility, I 
refer him to that picture, and tell him it means what he sees 
there. 

B. 

But that does not seem to me to be correct. For what he 
sees there, are rather the effects of humility, than humility 
itself. 

A. 

Very true—and herein language excells painting. Then, I 
say, humility means that sensation or sensations which produces 
those consequences which he sees depicted on that canvass. So, 
if any one pronounce the single word give, and inquire its 
meaning, the picture which would arise in any mind would be 
one in which was represented a person extending his hand, with 
something in it, toward another. And some such picture as 
this is what must occur to the mind of every one who sits down 
to inquire of himself what is the idea which he attaches to the 
word give. There would and could be no important variety in 
the picture, if a thousand men were to ask themselves the same 
question. A word, then, which has this power of bringing to 
the mind always one uniform picture, (uniform in all important 
points) is a good, proper, and useful sign of sensation. It is a 
general sign, it is true, and so is the word tree. When tree is 
pronounced in the hearing of several men, it brings to the mind 
of each man probably the sensation of a different tree. But the 
sensation of each tree will be the same as it regards essentials — 
that is, each ideal tree will contain all the attributes necessary to 



142 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

constitute the sensation or picture of a tree. And so of the 
word give. The picture brought to the mind of one person out 
of the thousand might possibly be that of a bird feeding its 
young. Still the essentials of the picture are the same, viz. 
something voluntarily parted with by one being, and transferred 
to another. But if the word virtue or truth be pronounced in 
the hearing of a thousand men, will the picture excited in all 
their minds be one and uniform in all essentials ? Nay, I ask 
you, will there be any picture or other sensation excited at all ? 
The word give most probably arose from some old word signi- 
fying the hand. We still use the word hand precisely in the 
same sense as the word give. Hand me a chair — hand me my 
snuff-box — hand me the salt. 

I assert, therefore, that there is, in all languages, but one sort 
of word — and that is the noun, or name of one or more sensa- 
tions ; and that words which do not signify either directly or 
indirectly one or more sensations, are mere idle noises signifying 
nothing, and serving no other purpose than that of setting 
mankind together by the ears. But this noun is sometimes 
used as a noun merely — that is, representing the picture of the 
object indefinitely, without regard to any particular relation to 
other objects. Thus, in the following sentence, "the British 
government possess ships/ 5 the word ships merely excites in the 
mind an idea of several ships in an indefinite manner — without 
defining the particular relation which these ships bear to other 
objects. They may be in the docks, or at anchor in the Thames, 
or sailing over the ocean — nothing is defined as to their 
particular relation to other objects, and therefore every man is 
at liberty to paint them in his mind as he pleases, either in the 
docks, or in the river, or on the sea. But if I say : " the 
British government s¥p men to America/'' then the various 
relations which the ship or ships bear to other objects are at 
once defined — and in the picture excited in the mind, the ships 
will be seen "walking the waters" of the "vasty deep." These 
particular relations I call " added circumstances." All words, 
therefore, in all languages, are nouns — sometimes used to 
signify sensible objects merely, and sometimes to signify sensible 
objects with these added circumstances—hut always to signify 



WORDS AND THINGS. 143 

sensible objects. When they signify sensible objects merely, 
they are called nouns. When they also signify these added 
circumstances, they are called verbs. And this brings me to 
the point at which Home Tooke started, viz. that all the words 
that are necessary in any language to communicate ideas are 
what we now call nouns and verbs. 



" The purpose of language is to communicate our thoughts — 
" which principle, being kept singly in contemplation, has 
" misled all those who have reasoned on this subject. I imagine 
" that it is, in some measure, with the vehicle of thoughts, as 
"with the vehicles for our bodies. Necessity produced both. 
" The first carriage for men was no doubt invented to transport 
" the bodies of those who from infirmity or otherwise could not 
" move themselves ; but should any one, desirous of under- 
" standing the purpose and meaning of all the parts of our 
" modern elegant carriages, attempt to explain them on this one 
"principle alone, viz. that they were necessary for conveyance — 
"he would find himself wofully puzzled to account for the 
"wheels, the seats, the springs, the blinds, the glasses, the 
" lining, &c. ; not to mention the mere ornamental parts of 
" gilding, varnish, &c. 

"Abbreviations are the wheels of language, the wings of 
" Mercury, and though we might be dragged along without 
" them, it would be with much difficulty, very heavily, and 
" tediously. 

" There is nothing more admirable nor more useful than the 
" invention of signs. At the same time there is nothing more 
"productive of error when we neglect to observe their com- 
" plication. Into what blunders, and consequently into what 
" disputes and difficulties might not the excellent art of short- 
" hand writing, practised almost exclusively by the English, lead 
" foreign philosophers ; who, not knowing that we had any 
" other alphabet, should suppose each mark to be the sign of a 
" single sound ! If they were very laborious and very learned 
" indeed, it is likely they would write as many volumes on the 



144 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

" subject, and with as much bitterness against each other, as 
cc grammarians have done from the same sort of mistake 
" concerning language ; until perhaps it should be suggested to 
" them that there may be not only signs of sounds ; but again, 
" for the sake of abbreviation, signs of those signs, one under 
" another, in a continued progression. 

" The errors of grammarians have arisen from supposing all 
ce words to be immediately either the signs of things or the signs 
cc of ideas ; whereas, in fact, many words are merely abbrevia- 
" tions employed for dispatch, and are the signs of other words. 
(C And these are the artificial wings of Mercury, by means of 
" which the Argos-eyes of philosophy have been cheated. 

" The first aim of language was to communicate our thoughts 
" — the second to do it with dispatch. The difficulties and 
et disputes concerning language have almost entirely arisen 
" from neglecting the consideration of this latter purpose of 
" speech ; which, though subordinate to the former, is almost as 
" necessary in the commerce of mankind. Words have been 
" called winged, and they well deserve that name, when their 
" abbreviations are compared with the progress which speech 
" could make without these inventions, but compared with the 
cc rapidity of thought, they have not the smallest claim to that 
u title. Philosophers have calculated the difference of velocity 
" between sound and light ; but who will attempt to calculate 
iC the difference between speech and thought ! What wonder 
" then that the invention of all ages should have been upon the 
" stretch to add such wings to their conversation as might 
u enable it, if possible, to keep pace in some measure, with their 
" minds. Hence chiefly the variety of words. 

u The two great purposes of speech (viz. first, the communi- 
" eating our thoughts, and, secondly, the doing so with dispatch) 
sc will lead us to the distribution of all words into — 
<e 1 . Those which are necessary for the communication of our 

" thoughts ; and, 
iC 2. Abbreviations employed for the sake of dispatch. 

i( In all languages there are only two sorts of words which 
" are necessary for the communication of our thoughts ; and 
u they are — 



WORDS AND THINGS. 145 

" 1 . The noun, and 
"2. Verb. 

"All other words are merely substitutes for these, which I 
" include under the title of abbreviations. Without using any 
" other sort of word whatever but the verb and noun, we can 
"relate or communicate anything which we can relate or 
" communicate with the help of all the others. We cannot do 
" it so well and rapidly however, but we can do it nevertheless. 
" A sledge cannot be drawn along so smoothly, and easily, and 
" swiftly, as a carriage with wheels — but it can be dragged. 
" Your first attempts to communicate your thoughts with the 
" help of the noun and verb merely, will seem very awkward ; 
11 and you will stumble as often as a horse long used to be shod, 
" that has newly cast his shoes. Indeed, without abbreviations, 
" language can get on but lamely ; and therefore they have been 
" introduced, in different plenty, and more or less happily, in all 
" languages. 

" This fact, viz. that we can communicate our thoughts by 
" means of the noun and verb alone, is the great proof of all I 
" have advanced. 

" The business of the mind, as far as it concerns language, 
" appears to me to be very simple. It extends no farther than 
" to receive impressions, that is, to have sensations or feelings. 
" What are called its operations, are merely the operations of 
" language." 



WORDS NECESSARY FOR THE COMMUNICATION OF OUR IDEAS. 

That — the word that (call it what you please, either article, or 
pronoun, or conjunction) retains always one and the same signi- 
fication ; and is, in fact, a verb, the meaning of which will be 
explained hereafter. Unnoticed abbreviation in construction 
and difference of position have caused an appearance of fluctua- 
tion in its meaning ; and have misled the grammarians of all 
languages, both ancient and modern ; for in all they make the 
same mistake. What is called the conjunction that and the 
pronoun that are one and the same word, having the same 
signification. And this is true in all languages. 

M 



146 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

EXAMPLE. 

I wish you to believe that I would not wilfully hurt a fly. 

RESOLUTION. 

I would not wilfully hurt a fly ; I wish you to believe that. 

EXAMPLE. 

She, knowing that Crooke had been indicted for forgery, did 
so and so. 

RESOLUTION. 

Crooke had been indicted for forgery ; she, knowing that, did 
so and so. 

There is no conceivable use of what is called the conjunction 
that, which cannot, by resolution, be shown to be nothing more 
than the pronoun that, as it is called ; but which will presently 
be shown to be a verb. 

If — is merely the imperative of the Gothic and Anglo-Saxon 
verb gifan, to give. And in those languages, as well as in the 
English formerly, this supposed conjunction was pronounced 
and written as the common imperative, purely gif. Thus : 

" My largesse 
" Hath lotted her to be your brother's mistress 
" Gif she can be reclaimed ; gif not, his prey." 
And accordingly our corrupted if has always the signification 
of the English imperative give, and no other. And this 
accounts for one particular use of the conjunction that (so 
called) which could not otherwise be explained. 

" I wonder he can move ! that he's not fixt ! 
" If that his feelings be the same with mine." 

RESOLUTION. 

His feelings be the same with mine, give that, I wonder he 
can move, &c. So that the resolution of the construction in 
these instances of the use of the so-called conjunction that, is 
precisely the same as in all others. And here, as an additional 
proof, we may observe, that wherever the datum, upon which 
any conclusion depends, is a sentence, the pronoun that, if not 
expressed, is always understood, and may be inserted after if. 
As in the instance I have given above, the poet might have 
said, 

" Gif that she can be reclaimed," &c. — 



WORDS AND THINGS. 147 

for the resolution is — (t She can be reclaimed,, give that, my 
largesse has lotted her to be your brother's mistress. She 
cannot be reclaimed, give that, my largesse hath lotted her to be 
your brother's prey." But the pronoun that is not understood, 
and cannot be inserted after if, where the datum is not a 
sentence, but some noun governed by the verb if or give. As— 

EXAMPLE. 

" How will the weather dispose of you to-morrow ? If fair, 
it will send me abroad; if foul, it will keep me at home." 
" Here we cannot say — if that fair, it will send me abroad ; if 
that foul, it will keep me at home." Because, in this case, the 
verb if governs the noun ; and the resolved construction is — 
" Give fair weather, it will send me abroad; give foul weather, 
it will keep me at home." But make the datum a sentence, 
as — " if it is fair weather, it will send me abroad ; if it is foul 
weather, it will keep me at home ;" and then the pronoun that 
is understood, and may be inserted after if; as — " if that it is 
fair weather, it will send me abroad; if that it is foul weather, 
it will keep me at home." 

The resolution then being — 

"■ It is fair weather, (give that) it will send me abroad ;" 

" It is foul weather, (give that) it will keep me at home." 
And this you will find to hold universally, not only with if, but 
with many other supposed conjunctions, such as hut that, unless 
that, though that, lest that, &c. (which are really verbs) put in 
this manner before the pronoun that. 

An — was formerly used occasionally instead of the word if, as 
in the following sentence from Twelfth Night. " An you had 
any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your 
heels, than fortunes before you." This word an is also a verb, 
and may very well supply the place of if; it being nothing 
else but the imperative of the Anglo-Saxon verb anan, which 
likewise means to give or grant. And this manner of accounting 
for the so-called conjunctions holds good in all languages. Not 
indeed that they must all mean precisely as these two do, give 
or grant ; but some word equivalent ; such as — be it, suppose, 
allow, permit, put, suffer, tyc. 



148 



CONNEXION BETWEEN 



HORNE TOOKE S SYNOPSIS OF THE ENGLISH CONJUNCTIONS. 

Gif- an, to give 
An-an, to grant 
Onles-an, to dismiss 
Eac-an, to add 
Get-an, to get 
Stell-an, to put 
Ales-an, to dismiss 
Thaf-ian, to allow 

or 
Thafig-an, to allow 
Bot-an, to boot 
Beon-utan, to be-out 
Wyrthan-utan, to be-out 
Anan-ad, to give a heap 
or, to neap together 

lesan, to dismiss. 

siththe, or sin-es — is the 



If 




f Gif 




An 




An 




Unless 




Onles 




Eke 




Eac 


co 


Yet 


03 

© 


Get 




mu 


> 


Stell 


> 


Else 


03 


Ales 


!> 


Tho $ 


ft 


Tbaf 


>1 

GO 


or 




or 


<B 


Though 


ffl 


Thafig 


'<D 


But 


cS 


Bot " 


etn 


But 




Be-utan 


o 


Without 




Wyrth-utan 




And 




An-ad 




Lest is t 


ae pa* 


>t participle lese 


d of 


Since — s 


iththan, syne, seand-es, 


participle o 


I seon 


, to see. 





PREPOSITIONS. 

Chez— French preposition, from the Italian casa, a race, 
family, nation, or sect — and that again from the Latin 
casa, a cottage, or house; as, Je viens de chez vous, 
i. e. a vous. 

With — is the imperative of withan, to join, and means join — as 
"a house with a roof," that is, "a house join a roof." 

Without — is the imperative of wyrthan, to be, and out; and 
means be out—as <( a house without a roof," that is, 
" a house he out a roof." 

Avec — a French preposition signifying with, anciently written 
avec que, is nothing more than " avez que," that is, have 
that. 

hns — a French preposition signifying without — from the 
Italian senza, often used thus, "senza di te," i. e. 
assenza, absence. So the Greek choris, without, from 
chorizein, to sever — and the German sonder, without, 
from sondern, to sever. And so the Latin sine, without, 
contracted from sit ne, that is, be not. And so also the 



WORDS AND THINGS. 149 

Italian /uori, the Spanish affuera, the French hors, 
anciently written fors, all signifying without, are all only 
so many corruptions of the Latin /oris, which means 
from the doors. 

Thorough and through — are the Moeso-Gothic dauro, which 
signifies a door or passage. So the Spanish por, the 
Latin and Italian per, and the French par, are nothing 
more than the Greek poros, a passage. 

From — is the Moeso-Gothic /rum, and signifies beginning or 
origin. 

To — is the Mceso-Gothic taui or tauhts, and means act or end, 
from taujan, to do, to accomplish, to end. So the Latin 
ad, (which is equivalent to our to), is from the verb ago, 
to act — contracted thus, agitum, agdum, agd, ad — or 
thus, actum, act, at — ad and at having both been used 
indifferently to signify to. 

Till — contraction of to while — that is, to time. 

Until — that is, unto while. 

For — from Mceso-Gothic /airina, signifies cause. The French 
car (for) is nothing more than the Latin quare, which is 
itself only a contraction of the Latin phrase, que ed re, 
which signifies, " and with or by that thing." 

0/ — Anglo-Saxon a/ora — signifies offspring, consequence. 

By — is the contraction of byth, which is the imperative of the 
Anglo-Saxon beon, to be — and signifies be, with a 
subaudition, sometimes, of the words instrument, cause, 
agent. 

Between — is a contraction of be and twegen — thus, betwegen, 
betwegn, between, and signifies by two or by twos. 

Betwixt — in Chaucer, bytwyt — is a similar compound of be, and 
the Moeso-Gothic twos, i. e. two. 

Be/ore, behind, below, &c. &c, are self-evident. 

Beneath — compound of be and neath, that is, low. 

Under — that is, on neder, or nether — as, " under a tree," that is, 
" at the lower part of a tree." 

Beyond — Anglo-Saxon geond, geoned, goned, is the past parti- 
ciple of gan, to go. 

Ward — from wardian, to look— as, "homeward" that is, "home 



150 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

look/' or looking in the direction of home. " Toward 
home" — that is, to ward home — that is, " look" the 
" end" of your looking being " home" 

Athwart — athweort, athweoried, past participle of thweorian, to 
wrest, to twist, to curve. 

Among, amongst — past participle of mcengan, to mix, means mixt, 
or mingled with. 

Against — ongegen, from some verb collateral with the Dutch 
jenenen, to meet, rencontrer, to oppose. 

Ymell — Danish, megler, melerer — French, meter, to blend. 

Amid, amidst — on middes, in the middle. 

Along — on long, on length, past participle of lengian, to stretch, 
to produce — means 'produced by a thing — as, " it was all 
along of you that I did so and so" — my act was pro- 
duced by you — that is, you were the cause of my per- 
forming the act. " Along the bank of the river"— that 
is, " on length, on the length of the river's bank." 

Around, round — on round — that is, in a circle. So in the Latin 
preposition circum also signifies a ring. The equivalent 
Dutch preposition is om-ring — that is, about a ring. 

Nigh, near, next — Anglo-Saxon nth, neh, neah, neahg, neahgest, 
next. 

Instead — Anglo-Saxon stead signifies & place. 

About — on but, i. e. on the outward extremity — but signifying 
the end of anything. 

After — comparative of aft, which probably signifies the back. 

Down — dufan, the past participle of dufian, to sink, to dive. 

Up — ufa, high, probably meaning in its original sense, the head 
— derived from hebban, to heave, from whose past parti- 
ciple, heafod, or hof conies the Anglo-Saxon heafod, 
which means a head, the German hof, which also means 
a head, and our English word head. It must be remem- 
bered that our word head was anciently pronounced 
heved. 

Upper, over— uf era, of ere, ofer. The comparative of ufa, high. 

Upon — Anglo-Saxon ufon, ufan, from heafen, heafon, heaved, 
exalted, heaven. 

Bove — be and ufan, contracted into bufan, buv, bove. 

Above— on bufan. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 151 

In — a fragment of the Moeso-Gothic and Anglo-Saxon word 

inna, which signifies the womb. 
Out — is the German haut, (pronounced hout) and signifies the 

skin. 



ADVERBS. 

Adrift — past participle of adrifan, to drive, and signifies driven 
away. 

Agast, aghast — may be past participle of agase, to look intensely, 
or the past participle agids of the Moeso-Gothic agjan, 
to fear, corrupted into agidst, agist, agast, as whiles was 
corrupted into whilst — or it may be the past participle 
of a verb formed from agis, which means, fear and 
trembling. This word agis is the long-sought origin of 
our word ague, correctly pronounced by the vulgar aguy. 

Asunder — from sundrian, to sever, to scatter, and that again 
from sond, sand. 

Belike — by luck; in Danish, lykke, in Swedish, lycka — mean 
luck, chance. 

Forth — French, fors, (now hors) from the Latin /oris, that is, 
out of doors. 

More, most — the comparative and superlative of ma, mowe, or 
mo, the past participle of mawan, to mow. Mo originally 
signified that which is mown together, or brought 
together by mowing, but afterwards any heap whatever. 

Much — is a diminutive of mo. Mokel was successively cor- 
rupted into mykel, mochil, muchel, moche, much. 

Nevertheless — is never the less. So natheless is na the less. 

Rather — comparative of rath, i. e. soon, early, quick. 

Fie — imperative of fan, to hate. 

Quickly — quick signifies alive, living — and ly in this and similar 
instances is a corruption of like. Thus, gentlemanly 
means gentleman-like — manly, man-like. 

Scarce — in Dutch, skaars — in Italian, scarso, rare. 

Seldom— selden, uncommon. 

Stark — as stark mad, that is, strongly mad. Stark means 
strong. 

Very — in ancient French and English veray, (in modern French 



152 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

vrai) from the Italian, and that from the Latin verus, 
true. 

Once — anes, ones, genitive of one. Subaudi time, turn, &c. 

Twice— twies, twyis, genitive of twai, twa, &c. two. 

Thrice — thries, thryis, &c. genitive of thri, three. 

Alone — is all one. 

Only — is one-like. 

Anon — that is, on one, (moment understood) On corrupted by 
rapid pronunciation into an before a vowel, and a before 
a consonant, has produced numberless so-called adverbs, 
as, aboard, aside, aback, &c. &c. 

Astray— horn, strcegan, to scatter like straw, to stray. 

Atwist — past participle of twisan, to twice, to fold. 

Awry — from writhan, to writhe. 

Askant — in Dutch aschuined from sohuinen, to cut awry, from 
schuin, crooked. Hence, perhaps, squint. 

Askance — in Dutch, aschuins, sloping, awry. 

Askew — akin, to the Danish skicev, wry, crooked. 

Aswoon — suanian, aswunan, to faint. 

Enough — Dutch genoeg, from genoegen, to content. Anglo- 
Saxon genog, genoh, is apparently the past participle of 
genogan, to multiply. 

Fain — -fcegened, fcegen, fcegn, past participle of fcegenian, fozg- 
nian, to be glad, to rejoice. 

Lief- — leof, beloved, is the past participle of lufian, to love. 

Liever — leofre, the comparative of leof. 

Liefest — leofest, the superlative. 

Lo — look 

Needs — need is, contracted into needs. 

Certes — certe is, (that is, certain is), contracted into certes. 

Perhaps — by or through haps, i. e. accidents. 

Aye, yea, yes — from agan to have — or from ayez, signifying 
have that. In German, Dutch, Swedish, and Danish, 
the word yes, corresponds with the word signifying to 
have. So the French oui is from ouir, to hear, signifying 
" I hear," and by implication, " am not averse." 

Not, contract, no — from the Danish nbdig, or Dutch noode, 
node, no, all of which signify averse, unwilling. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 153 

For a multitude of examples, authorities, instances, and argu- 
ments, to show that this analysis of the so-called indeclinables 
in all languages is the only true and natural one, I must refer 
you to Home Tooke's work itself— a work which no man, who 
takes any interest in the affairs of mankind, should be without. 
I believe there is now no scholar who does not admit that Home 
Tooke's system of language is the true one. Observe, I say, his 
system of language — not his etymology of particular words— in 
which he is sometimes unquestionably wrong. After the lapse 
of so many centuries of time since the first invention of language, 
it is impossible to trace up every word to its original root, and 
its original signification. But he has perfectly succeeded in 
tracing up quite enow to establish the principle, that it is nothing 
but the lapse of time which prevents us from tracing up all of 
them to the same sources as those to which he has succeeded in 
tracing up most of them. 

But there are two general arguments, either of which alone 
seems to me abundantly sufficient to prove that these pretendedly 
unmeaning words have, each of them, a distinct signification. 
For, if these conjunctions and prepositions be really without 
meaning, and only serve the single purpose of connecting sen- 
tences together, then why several prepositions and conjunctions ? 
If they serve but one purpose, why more than one preposition 
and conjunction ? We do not require spoons of a dozen 
different shapes and patterns to eat our soup withal ! Whether 
the soup be white or brown — mock-turtle, or real — still one 
spoon serves the purpose. And so would one conjunction, if it 
were true that conjunctions only serve the one purpose of con- 
necting sentences. A note of interrogation serves the single 
purpose of denoting that a question is asked. Accordingly, we 
have but one note of interrogation, let the questions be as various 
as they may. And so, if conjunctions and prepositions were, 
like the note of interrogation, destitute of all meaning, and only 
served one purpose, viz., that of connecting sentences together, 
we should then have no more required several prepositions and 
conjunctions, than we do several notes of interrogation. To me 
this one argument is conclusive — for, in my mind, one good 
argument is as fully convincing as one hundred. But in case 

N 



154 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

you should be one of those who require to have the truth driven 
into your head, after the same fashion as that by which a nail is 
driven into a post, I will give you another equally strong. It is 
this. Nearly the whole, if not quite the whole, of our conjunc- 
tions and prepositions may be entirely dismissed from language 
without detriment to language, provided only that you supply 
their place with other words— but then these other words, in 
order that they may supply the place of the conjunctions and 
prepositions without detriment to the sense, must have a meaning. 
But if the conjunctions and prepositions had no meaning, then 
it is as clear as the sun at noon, that it could not be necessary 
that the words used to supply their place should have any mean- 
ing. For surely nothing can be clearer than that one unmean- 
ing word is just as good as another unmeaning word ! Thus the 
place of our so-called conjunction if may perfectly well be sup- 
plied by our verb to suppose, and yet the sense remain just the 
same, and just as intelligible as though the word ifweve used. 
For instance : " You tell me that if it be fine weather to-morrow 
you intend to go to York. But suppose it should rain — what 
shall you do then V Now the sense here is manifestly the same, 
whether you say, "but suppose it should rain;" or, "if it should 
rain." But supposing the word if to have no meaning, then its 
place might be supplied by any other word which has no meaning, 
and still the sense be preserved. Hobgoblin or Flibbertigibbet 
would answer the purpose just as well. But this is not the case. 
So our conjunction unless may have its place supplied by the 
verb except, and yet the sense be still preserved. " I shall go to 
York to-morrow, unless it rains ;" or, " I shall go to York to- 
morrow, except it rains." I say that, to all men who are open 
to conviction and untrammelled by prejudices, these two argu- 
ments are of themselves fully sufficient to prove that these 
so-called unmeaning words have, in reality, as good and definite 
a meaning as any other words under the sun. And so of the 
conjunction and — preposition, with, without, &c. &c. 

I took up this morning at breakfast one of the numbers of 
the Encyclopoedia published by " the Society for the Diffusion 
of Useful Knowledge ;" and I was extremely gratified to find 
under the heads of conjugation and conjunction, Home Tooke's 



WORDS AND THINGS. 155 

views of language acknowledged and adopted. The article on 
conjunctions concludes thus : " many of the conjunctions defy all 
attempts at analysis, and certainly Home Tooke, notwithstanding 
the acuteness and truth of his general views, has occasionally 
erred in the details of derivation." To be sure he has ! Home 
Tooke was a mortal man, not super-human. But of what con- 
sequence are the paltry details of mere derivation, excepting only 
to the mere pedagogue ? It is the principle — the system — the 
general view — with which, and with which alone, philosophy is 
concerned. And if this be admitted — as it is by all scholars — 
if, I say, Home Tooke' s system of language be admitted, I care 
not two straws how often he has erred in his particular etymolo- 
gies. His object was to establish a principle, in order that he 
might afterwards use that principle as a foundation whereon to 
build a future superstructure. His principle is now uni- 
versally admitted. That is sufficient. 

The immediate object of Home Tooke' s book may be explained 
in a few words by supposing a case. He first of all satisfied his 
own mind, by a priori reasoning, that there could not be in any 
language any words which were not the signs of things or sensa- 
tions. Now suppose he had published this opinion. It would 
instantly have been answered: "you are wrong, Home Tooke — 
manifestly and glaringly wrong — for there are many words in 
all languages, which it is universally agreed have no meaning — 
witness the conjunctions — witness the prepositions — witness 
the adverbs — witness the abstract nouns — witness the adjectives, 
&c. &c" Now then you have only to suppose that Horne 
Tooke did actually publish this his opinion, and that his opinion 
was thus actually replied to, and further that the Diversions of 
Purley were actually written in answer to this reply, with the 
view of proving that these so-called unmeaning words have 
really all of them a very good meaning, and therefore cannot 
be quoted as argument against his theory of language, and you 
will at once understand the true immediate purpose of Horne 
Tooke' s Epea Pteroenta. The Epea Pteroenta were not written 
to prove his theory, but only to prove that these conjunctions, 
and prepositions, and abstract nouns, could not be quoted as 
arguments against it. He who looks upon Horne Tooke' s 

n 2 



156 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

etymologies merely as so many proofs of Home Tooke' s theory, 
does not understand Home Tooke. 

So much for those words which are necessary to all languages. 
We now come to those which are not actually necessary — but 
which are nevertheless of eminent service as abbreviations 
employed for the sake of dispatch in the communication of our 
ideas. 

" These terms are generally (I say, generally) participles or 
adjectives used without any substance to which they can be 
joined ; and are therefore, in construction, considered as noun 
substances." Thus the following words are neither more nor 
less than Latin past participles. 

An act — is (aliquid) act-urn, that is, (something) acted. 

A fact — (aliquid) fact-urn, that is, (something) done. 

A debt — (aliquid) debit-um, that is, (something) due. 

Eent= — (aliquid) rendit-xnm, that is, (something) rendered. 

Tribute — (aliquid) tribut-um, that is, (something) given. 

An attribute — (aliquid) attribut-um, that is, (something) 
allotted to. 

Incense — (aliquid) incens-um, that is, (something) burnt. 

An expanse — (aliquid) eccpans-mn, that is, (something) 
spread out. 

All these are Latin words which we have adopted into our 
language whole and entire, only " omitting the Latin article 
urn, and prefixing our own article a, an, or the, instead of it." 
( ' It is of such words as these," says Home Tooke, " that the 
bulk of every language is composed. In English, those which 
are borrowed from the French, Latin, and Italian are easily 
recognised ; because those languages are sufficiently familiar to 
us, and not so familiar as our own. Those from the Greek are 
more striking, because more unusual. But those which are 
original in our own language have been almost wholly overlooked, 
and are quite unsuspected. These words, these participles and 
adjectives, not understood as such, have caused a metaphysical 
jargon and a false morality, which can only be dissipated by 
etymology. And when they come to be examined, you will 
find that the ridicule which Dr. Conyers Middleton has justly 
bestowed upon the Papists for their absurd coinage of saints, is 



WORDS AND THINGS. 157 

equally applicable to ourselves and to all other metaphysicians, 
whose moral deities, moral causes, and moral qualities are not 
less ridiculously coined and imposed upon their followers. 
Fate, destiny, luck, lot, chance, accident, heaven, hell, providence, 
prudence, innocence, substance, fiend, angel, apostle, saint, spirit, 
true, false, desert, merit, fault, &c. &c. as well as just, right, and 
wrong, are merely participles poetically embodied, and substan- 
tiated by those who use them. The sham-deity fate is the 
Latin, (aliquid) fat-won — in English, (something) spoken or 
decreed. The sham-deity destiny is the French, (quelque 
chose) destinee — in English, (something) decreed — and are 
merely the past participles of the Latin verb fari, to speak, 
or decree, and the French verb destiner signifying the same 
thing. Chance and accident (twin brothers) are merely the past 
participles of escheoir, cheoir, and cadere, and signify fallen out 
or happened; and to say, " it befell me by chance or accident, 
is absurdly to say, it fell by falling." Providence, prudence, 
innocence, substance, and all the rest of that tribe of qualities 
(in ence and ance) are merely the neuter plurals of the present 
participles videntia, nocentia, stantia, of the Latin verbs videre, 
to see ; nocere, to injure ; stare, to stand, &c. &c. 
Angel, saint, spirit — are the past participles of aggellein, (pro- 
nounced angellein) sanciri, and spirare, to bear tidings, to 

confirm by law, to breathe. 
Cant, chaunt, accent, canto, cantata — are the past participles of 

canere, to sing, or play upon an instrument ; cantare, to 

sing, to praise, to speak often of a thing ; and chanter, 

to sing or chaunt. 
Date — is the Latin past participle dat-um (given) which was 

written by the Romans at the bottom of their epistles. 

In law documents, we still say, " given under our hand 

and seal." 
Verdict — is the Latin past participle veredict-um, i. e. spoken 

according to the truth. 
Interdict — is the Latin past participle interdict-urn, i. e. spoken 

against or forbidden. 
See you not what an immense saving of time is effected by 
this abbreviated manner of speech ? See you not how much 



158 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

less time it requires to pronounce the single word verdict, than it 
does to utter all the several words of which that one word verdict 
is the sign ? — viz., spoken according to the truth ? See you not 
too what additional force and compactness language acquires by 
this short-hand manner of speaking ? 

Post — is the Latin past participle posit-um, and means (some- 
thing) placed; and however used in English, whether as 
noun, adjective, or adverb — whether as — a post in the 
ground — a military post — to take post—a, post under 
government — the post for letters— post-chaise, or post- 
horse — to travel post — always signifies something placed. 
Thus, in our present situation, intelligence is conveyed 
by post ; for whether it be by horses placed in relays, or 
by men placed, or fires placed, or telegraphs placed, or 
beacons of any kind — still it will always be by posit, or 
by posts, i. e. by something placed. 
Close, a close, a closet, a clause, a recluse, a sluice, are all 
past participles of claudere and clorre, to shut in. 

Duct, aqueduct, conduct, produce, product, conduit, are the past 
participles of the Latin ducere, and the French conduire, to lead 
or carry forward. Fact, effect, defect, prefect, perfect, fit, a fit, 
feat, a feat, defect, counterfeit, surfeit, forfeit, benefit, profit, are 
all past participles of facere and faire, to do — -their several 
meanings being modified by other words prefixed to them. 
Thus bene-fit signifies something not only done, but bene, i. e. 
well-done. Promise, compromise, committee, remiss, surmise, 
demise, epistle, apostle, sect, insect, time, atom, point, prompt, 
exempt, rate, remorse, morsel, are all only so many past participles 
adopted into our language, and naturalized, from the Latin and 
Greek. So tract, extract, contract, abstract, track, trace, trait, 
(formerly written traict) portrait, (formerly written pourtraict) 
treat, treaty, retreat, estreat, are all so many past participles of 
the Latin verb trahere, and the French verb traire, to draw. 
Event, convent, advent, venue, avenue, revenue, covenant, are the 
past participles of venire and venir, to come. Saute, assault, 
assailant, insult, result, somersault, of satire, to leap. Quest, in- 
quest, request, conquest, requisite, perquisite, are past participles 
of quoerere, to seek, and signify that which is sought. Suit, 



WORDS AND THINGS. 159 

suite, pursuit, law-suit, past particples of suivre, to follow, and 
signify that which is followed. For whole hosts of these words 
I must refer you to Home Tooke's work. All these, coming as 
they do immediately from the Greek, Latin, Italian, and French, 
with scarcely any alteration, are clearly perceivable at first sight. 
But there are many others in the language which, having been 
more corrupted by time, and coming from a language not so 
well understood as the Greek, Latin, Italian, and French, (viz., 
the Anglo-Saxon) are not so easy recognizable, although not less 
certainly past participles, like those above mentioned, and 
employed by us in like manner for the sake of abbreviation and 
dispatch in writing and speaking. Thus : 
Brand — in all its uses, is the past participle of the old 
English verb, to bren, i. e. to burn, and signifies burned. 
Odd — is nothing more than the past participle owed, ow'd. 
Thus, when we are counting by couples, or by pairs, we 
say — one pair, two pairs, &c. ; and one owed, ow'd, to 
make up another pair. It has the same meaning when 
we say an odd man. It still relates to pairing ; and we 
mean, without a fellow, unmatched, not such another, one 
owed to make up a couple. 
Head — is heaved, heav'd, the past participle of to heave — meaning 
that part of the body which is heav'd, raised, or up- 
lifted above the rest. In Edward the Third's time it 
was written heved. 
Wild — is willed, wilVd, (or self-willed) past participle of to will. 
Flood — is flowed, flowed. 

Loud — is the past participle of to low, like oxen, lowed, low^d. 
What we now write loud was formerly and more properly 
written low'd. 

" Who calls so low'd." — Shakspeare. 
"And with low'd larums welcome them to Home." — Shakspeare. 
Shred, sherd — past participle of scyran, to sheer, to cut off, and 

signify that which is cut off. 
Blind — past participle of blinnan, to stop, and means that which 

is stopped. 
Bread— past participle of to bray — -and means that which is 

brayed. 



160 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

Field— is past participle of fallan, to fell, and means land on 
which the trees have been felled. It was formerly 
written feld. 
I can only give you the words. If you wish to see the exam- 
ples and proofs, almost without number, together with examples 
of the manner of corruption, step by step, by which the old 
mode of spelling has been gradually laid aside and the present 
mode adopted, you must read Home Tooke, and you will be 
abundantly satisfied. 

Fiend — is not a past participle, but it is the present participle 
fiand of the Anglo-Saxon and Mceso-Gothic verb fan, to 
hate ; and means (some one, any one) hating. 
Friend — in like manner, is the present participle friand of the 
Anglo-Saxon verb frian, to love, and means (some one^ 
any one) loving. 
It — our pronoun it — is merely the past participle of the Anglo- 
Saxon hcetan, to name, and means the named, or the 
said. It was written hit by all our old English writers 
down to Elizabeth. Shakspere so wrote it. In Anglo- 
Saxon it is written hit, hyt, and heet. Our old word 
flight, i. e, called, is the same word. This meaning of 
the pronoun it, viz. the said, will perfectly correspond 
with every use of the pronoun it in our language. 
That— the pronoun that — is in like manner the past participle 
of the verb thean, and means taken, assumed. It and 
that always refer to some thing or things, person or 
persons taken, assumed, or spoken of, before. See Home 
Tooke for examples and proofs. 
The — our article the, as it is called — is the imperative of the 
same verb thean, to The, to get, to take, to assume. 
" 111 mote he The (i. e. ill may he get) 
That caused me 

To make myself a frere." — Sir T. More. 
See Home Tooke for examples of the manner of using this 
word the, so as to correspond with our use of the article the. 
But I must hurry on. 

Faint-— is the past participle of fa nigean, to fade, to wither, to 
pass away. That it does not end in ed or 'd is no 



WORDS AND THINGS. 161 

objection ; for nothing is more common in English than 
the change of the participial terminating d into t. 
Thus— 

Joint — is joined, joined, joint. 

Feint — is feigned, feign'd, feint. Gift is gived, giv'd, gift. 
Rift is rived, riv'd, rift. 

Cleft — is cleaved, cleav'd, cleft. Thrift is thrived, thrived, thrift. 
Shrift is shrived, shriv'd, shrift. And so of multitudes 
of others. 

Haft — is haved, hav'd, haft. Hilt is held, helt, hilt. 

Tight — is tied, ti'd, tight. Desert is deserved, deserved, desert. 
Twist is twiced, twic'd, twist. 

Want — is waned, wan'd, want, to fall away. En, as well as ed, 
is also a common participial termination, and our 
ancestors affixed either indifferently to any word. Sir 
Thomas More preferred en and wrote understanden ; 
Bishop Gardner preferred ed, and wrote understanded. 

Leaven — from the French lever, to raise — is that by which the 
dough is raised. So the Anglo-Saxons called it hafen, 
the past participle of their own verb heafan, to raise. 
So heaven is (some place, any place) heav-en or heav-ed, 
i. e. upraised, wplifted above other places. The Scotch 
still employ the word lift to signify the sky. And we 
use the word loft for a raised room, as, a hay-loft. 

Bacon — is evidently the past participle of bacan, to bake, or to 
dry by heat, and means hog's flesh dried by heat. 

Wrong — is the past participle of to wring, and means that 
which is wrung, or wrested from the right — i. e. the right 
line' of conduct. 

Barren — i. e. barr-ed — means stopped, shut. You have already 
seen that our ancestors made their participles by adding 
either en or ed indifferently — sometimes one, sometimes 
the other — to the verb. 

" For God thus plagued had the house 
Of Bimelech the king, 

The matrix of them all were stopt (i. e. barren) 
They might no issue bring." — Genesis, by W. Hunnis* 
Thus then you cannot fail to observe that words are never 



162 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

used arbitrarily ; but that there is a reason in nature why each 
particular word was choseu to be the sign of each particular 
thing. Thus cud signifies cheufd; and to chew the cud means, 
to chew the chew'd. This change of pronunciation, and conse- 
quently of writing, from ch to k, and from k to ch, is very 
common and frequent in our language. 

Hone — hones are made of petrified wood ; and hone is the past 
participle of hcenan, to become stone ; and hone, therefore, 
means that which has been converted into stone. And so 
also — 
Law — anciently written laugh, lagh, lage, and lay, — is merely 
the past participle of the Gothic word lagjan, to put, to 
place, to lay down, and signifies (something, anything) 
laid down — as a rule of conduct. Thus also — 
Mad— as well as its Italian equivalent matto — is merely mcett, 
meed, (d for t — and the 02 pronounced broad like a in 
father, as it always was pronounced) the past tense of 
the Anglo-Saxon verb metan, to mete, to dream. The 
verb to mete was formerly in common use, as we now 
use the verb to dream. A madman, therefore, is one 
who dreams. So — 
Born — is merely the past participle of bearan, to bear. It was 
formerly written boren, and we now write the same word, 
only on different occasions, borne. Born is borne into 
the world, or brought into the world. 
But besides prepositions, conjunctions and abstract nouns, 
there is yet another class of words to which the objectors to 
Home Tooke's assertion, that " that is not a word which is not 
the name of a thing or a sensation," might have appealed, viz. the 
concretes as they are called, or adjectives. Accordingly he pro- 
ceeds to show that these also are nothing but nouns, that is, the 
names of things. " I think," says he, " you will not deny that 
gold, and brass, and silk, are each of them the name of a thing. 
If then I say — a gold-ring, a brass-tube, a silk-stving, here are 
noun substantives used after the manner of adjectives, yet which 
are still the names of things. If, again, I say — a golden ring, a 
brazen tube, a silken string; do gold, and brass, and silk, cease to 
be the names of things because, instead of coupling them with 



WORDS AND THINGS. 163 

ring, tube, and string by a hyphen, thus, - I choose rather to 
couple them with the same words by using the termination en 
for that purpose ? Do not the adjectives (which I have made 
such by the added termination) golden, brazen, silken, (uttered by 
themselves) convey to the hearer's mind and denote the same 
things as gold, brass, and silk ? Surely the addition of the 
termination en takes nothing away from the substantives gold, 
brass, and silk, by being added to them as a termination ? And 
as surely it adds nothing to their signification but this single 
circumstance, viz. that gold, brass, and silk, are intended, by 
means of this termination en, to he joined to some other substan- 
tive. And we shall find hereafter that en, and the equivalent 
adjective terminations ed and ig (our modern y), convey all 
these, by their own intrinsic meaning, that very intention and 
nothing else ; for they mean give, add, join. And this single 
added circumstance of " pertaining to," is (as Wilkins truly 
tells us) the only difference between an adjective and a substance 
— between gold and golden. In fact, therefore, the words 
golden, brazen, silken, are nothing but gold-add, brass-give, silk- 
join, that is, give, add, or join something else. So the adjectives 
wood-en and wool-en convey precisely the same meaning, and are 
the names of the same things as the substantives wood and 
wool; and the termination en puts them in a condition to be 
wined to some other substantive ; or rather, it gives us notice 
that the speaker has not done speaking, but that he intends to 
add some other word to the one he has just uttered. Thus, if a 
man utter the word silken, and then stop, the natural question 
is, " silken whatl" that is, "what other word are you going to 
add or joint To which the answer might be, " handkerchief." 
And this is the whole mystery of simple adjectives. (We speak 
not here of compounds, asful, ous, ly, &c.) 

"An adjective is the name of a thing which is directed to be 
joined to some other name of a thing. And the substantive 
and adjective so joined, are frequently convertible without the 
smallest change of meaning : as we may say : & perverse nature, 
or, a natural perversity. 

" Mr. Harris's method of understanding "easily" the nature 
of participles and adjectives, resembles very much that of the 



164 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

wag who undertook to teach the sons of Crispin how to make a 
shoe or a slipper easily — in a minute. But he was more 
successful than Harris, for he had something to cut away, viz. 
the boot. Whereas Harris has nothing to be so served. For 
the verb does not denote any time, nor does it imply any 
assertion. No single word can. Till one single thing can be 
found to be a couple, one single word cannot make an ad-sertion, 
or an ad-firmation, for there is joining in that operation, and 
there can be no junction of one thing" 

It is true the Latin word ibo (I will go) is an assertion, and 
that too in three letters. But these three letters are, in fact, 
three words — two verbs and a pronoun. 

" All those common terminations, in any language, of which all 
nouns or verbs in that language equally partake (under the 
notion of declension or conjugation), are themselves separate 
words, with distinct meanings, which are therefore added to the 
different nouns or verbs, because those additional circumstances 
are intended to be added occasionally to all those nouns or 
verbs. These terminations are all explicable, and ought all to 
be explained, or there will be no end of such phantastical writers 
as this Mr. Harris, who takes fustian for philosophy. 

" In the Greek verb I-enai (to go) — in the Latin verb I-re (to 
go) — and in the English verb to-hie, or to hi (that is, to go), 
the infinitive terminations enai and re make no more part of the 
Greek and Latin verbs, than the infinitive prefix to makes a part 
of the English verb hie or hi. The pure and simple verbs, 
without any suffix or prefix, are in the Greek I, in the Latin J, 
and in the English hie or hi. These verbs, you see, are the 
same, with the same meaning, in the three languages ; and differ 
only by our aspirate, the h. 

" In the Greek boul-omai, (to will) or (as anciently written) 
boul-eo, or boulo — boul only is the verb, omai or eo is a common 
removeable suffix with a separate meaning of its own. So in the 
Latin v ol-o, (to will) vol is the verb, and o a common removeable 
suffix with a meaning of its own. And the meaning of eo in 
the one, and o in the other, I take to be ego, (I) ; for I per- 
fectly concur with Dr. Gregory Sharpe and others, that the 
personal pronouns are contained in the Greek and Latin termi- 












WORDS AND THINGS. 165 

nations of the three persons of their verbs. Our English ich or 
ig (which we now pronounce /) is not far removed from ego. 

"Where we now use willy our old English word was wol, 
which is the pure verb without prefix or suffix. 

"This word ibo, then, uncontracted, will stand thus in the 
three languages — only inverting our common order of speech, in 
order to suit that of the Greek and Latin. 

English hi wol ich—i. e. go will I, or I will go. 

Latin i" vol o — i. e. go will I, or / will go. 

Greek / boul eo — i. e. go will I, or / will go. 

Those who have noticed that where we employ w, the Latins 

employed a v ; and where the Latins employed a v, the Greeks 

used a b, (as Dabid, Bespasianos, &c.) will see at once that wol, 

vol, boul, are one and the same word. And the progress to ibo 

is not very circuitous nor unnatural. It is iboul, ibou, ibo. The 

termination bo (for bouleo, I will) may therefore well be applied 

to denote the future time of the Latin verbs, since its meaning 

is / woll (or will) . So amabo (I will love) is amaboul, amabou, 

amabo. Anciently the Romans said audi-bo (I will hear), then 

they said audi-am (I will hear), and now they (that is, the 

Italians) say udir-b — i. e. 

Audi (re) volo — I will to hear. 
Audi (re) amo — I desire to hear. 
Udir(e) ho — I have to hear." 
B. 
I suppose, then, that you had this word ibo in your mind, 
when you said that not only every word in a language has a 
meaning, but also every letter even. 

A. 
I certainly had this word ibo in my mind at that time, and 
many more of a like kind ; but I had something else in my 
mind besides. 

I was insisting that there is nothing arbitrary in language ; 
but that there is always a reason why each particular word was 
chosen as the representative of that particular thing which it 
signifies — that there is a meaning inherent in the word, and a 
connection between that meaning and the word, which consti- 
tutes the reason why that word was chosen in preference to 



166 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

others in order to convey that meaning. And this is true even 
of the individual letters of the alphabet. They were not adopted 
arbitrarily. There is a reason why each letter has the particular 
form which we see it has, and also why it has the particular 
name by which it is called. This is not indeed discoverable in 
our modern alphabets, but it is readily so in the older alphabets 
of which probably all the others are corruptions. The names of 
the letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and also of the Runic, it is 
well known, are likewise the names of things. Thus the first 
letter, aleph, of the Hebrew, signifies an ox, and the letter mem 
signifies water, &c. But this is not all. For the letters them- 
selves are merely all that corruption, and haste, and carelessness 
in the writers, have left us of real drawings, pictorial delinea- 
tions, of the things which they represented. Thus, in the 
Phenician alphabet, (a more ancient form of the Hebrew) the 
first letter, that is, the Hebrew aleph, which I have just said 
signifies an ox, is by no means a bad representation of an ox's 
head with the horns and ears. And in the Etruscan alphabet, 
(probably a still more ancient form of the Hebrew) the letter 
answering to the Hebrew mem, which I have said signifies water, 
is merely a waving line — a very common and natural symbol of 
water, and, no doubt, intended to imitate undulation— that 
waving and uneven appearance presented by water when its 
surface is rippled by a slight wind. In fact, letters are real 
hieroglyphics, or rather the fragments of hieroglyphics — all 
that time, corruption, and the hurry and carelessness of tran- 
scribers, have left. If we were to begin to use hieroglyphic 
characters again, it would soon happen, in the hurry of writing, 
that the picture of a house would be so rudely and imperfectly 
drawn, as scarcely to resemble a house at all. And, in the 
lapse of time, it is quite probable that all that would be left of 
the original picture of a house, would be a single chimney — and 
that single chimney would be sufficient. Constant use would 
easily preserve the connection between that corrupted and frag- 
mental sign and the idea of a house. 

But to return to the adjectives. " I maintain," says Home 
Tooke, " that the adjective is equally and altogether as much the 
name of a thing, as the noun substantive, and so I say of all 



WORDS AND THINGS. 167 

words whatever. For that is not a word which is not the name 
of a thing. 

"That an adjective cannot stand by itself, bnt mnst be joined 
to some other noun, does not proceed from any difference in 
the nature of the idea or thing of which the adjective is the 
sign ; but from hence, that having added to the sign of an idea 
that change of termination which, by agreement or common 
acceptance, signifies that it is to be joined to some other sign, 
the hearer or reader expects that other sign which the adjective 
termination announces. For the adjective termination of the 
sign sufficiently informs him that the sign, when thus adjectived, 
is not to be used by itself or to stand alone, but is to be joined 
to some other term. It is therefore well called noun adjective — 
(that is, name that may be added) — for it is the name of a thing, 
which may be joined to another name of a thing. 

"If in what I have said of the adjective I have expressed 
myself clearly and satisfactorily, you will easily observe that 
adjectives, though convenient abbreviations, are not necessary to 
language. And perhaps you will perceive in the misappre- 
hension of this useful and simple contrivance of language, one 
of the foundations of those heaps of false philosophy with which 
we have been bewildered. 

"Those adjectives terminating in ly, ous,ful, some, les, ish, are 
all compound words, the termination being originally a word 
added to those other words, of which it now seems merely the 
termination ; though it still retains its original and distinct 
signification." 

B. 

Does Home Tooke give any instance of a language entirely 
destitute of adjectives ? 

A. 

There is no necessity for any such instance. General reason- 
ing alone is quite sufficient to prove to any thinking man that 
adjectives are not necessary to a language, although they are 
extremely useful. One name of a thing uttered quickly after 
another name of a thing, as in fact we are still frequently in the 
habit of doing, would serve the purpose of the adjective. Thus 
we say a gold-watch, sea-weed, ivory-wand, shell-fish, river-god, 



168 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

&c. &c. Nevertheless, to satisfy those who either cannot or 
will not use their own reason, he does give an instance. He 
quotes a work by Dr. Jonathan Edwards, D. D. Pastor of a 
church in New-Haven. The work is called, " Observations on 
the Language of the Muhhekaneew Indians, communicated to the 
Connecticut Society of Arts and Sciences ; published at the 
request of the Society, and printed by Josiah Meigs, 1788." 
The Doctor happened to be brought up entirely in the society of 
Indians. While himself a boy, Indian boys were his only play- 
mates. Their language, he says, was more familiar to him than 
his mother tongue. And the Doctor declares, " The Mohegans 
have no adjectives in all their language. Although it may at 
first seem not only singular and curious, but impossible, that a 
language should exist without adjectives, yet it is an indubitable 
fact." 

The words in ble we have taken from the French, who took 
them corruptly from the Italian. Our Anglo-Saxon full, which 
with the Germans is vol, became the Italian vole. Hence the 
Italian words abominevole, comfortevole, &c. &c, were corrupted 
by the French into abominable, comfortable, &c. 

In this manner our own word full (passing through the Ger- 
man, Italian, and French) comes back to us again under the 
corrupt shape of ble. 

Our English word able is the Gothic abal, which signifies 
strength. 

The terminations ive and ic, are Latin and Greek words also, 
denoting strength. 

I have now attempted to give you some idea (and it is an 
exceedingly meagre one) of the nature of Home Tooke's great 
work, and of the manner in which he proves that there is 
nothing in language itself which is hostile to his assertion that 
te every word in all languages must necessarily be the name of a 
thing or things," sensation or sensations ; but, on the contrary, 
that it contains everything to confirm it. And, if this be true, 
the absurd doctrine of abstraction — of those ignes fatui, those 
will-o'-tlr'-wisps, called abstract ideas, is scattered to the 
winds in a moment. If you be still sceptical, then I earnestly 
recommend you to give one hour a-day to the attentive perusal 



WORDS AND THINGS. 169 

of the Diversions of Furley, and you will be fully satisfied, and 
richly, most richly rewarded. The book is a whole philosophical 
library in itself. 

The consequences to which this exposition and explosion of 
the ridiculous and even childish doctrine of abstraction lead, are 
manifest and inevitable. For it lays every man under the neces- 
sity, if he be called upon, to inform his hearers or readers of 
what sensation any particular word which he uses is the sign. 
If a hearer declare that he has not in him any one particular 
sensation represented, or intended to be represented, by any one 
particular word, then the speaker is under an obligation to put 
it in him. But this cannot be done by words. If I, in 
discourse, make use of the word rondelesia, I am under an 
obligation, if required, to explain the meaning of that word. If 
I be asked to do this — if I be asked of what sensation rondelesia 
is the sign, I may reply that it is the name of a particular odor. 
But if I be required further to put into my hearer that particular 
idea, or sensation, or odor, of which that word is the sign, this 
also I can do — but not by words — but I can do it, and I can 
only do it, by submitting to his organ of smell that particular 
substance which emits that particular odor. And so if a man 
make use of a word as the sign or name of a visible object, the 
sensation or idea of which is not in my mind, that word must 
be unintelligible to me, until he has put the idea into my mind, 
either by showing me the object, or by drawing it on paper. If 
it be the name of a sound, he can only make me understand the 
meaning of the word — that is, he can only put into me the 
sensation indicated by the word — by imitating that sound with 
his voice, or by taking me where I may hear it. And so on of 
all sensations, saving only those which result from the nature of 
animal organization, and which we have in common with the 
brutes — I mean the animal instincts. But as these instincts 
form a part of the very nature of all men, all men must have 
them, and therefore cannot require them to be put into them ; 
and all words, therefore, which, by common consent, stand as 
the signs of these sensations, must always be intelligible. If a 
man use a word whose meaning I do not understand, I therefore 
ask him : " is it the name of an instinct V No. " Of a flavor?" 



170 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

No. " Of an odor 1" No. " Of any of those sensations which 
we receive through the sense of touch V No. " Is it a sound V 
No. "A visible object?" No. "Is it the name of anythiug 
that can be appreciated by any one of the five senses t" No. 
Then I say with Home Tooke, " that word is not a word at 
all." For it cannot by possibility serve as an instrument for 
the communication of knowledge, but must for ever remain 
wholly unintelligible. It may be the sign of a sensation exist- 
ing in him who uses it — but it can manifestly have no power 
whatever of putting that sensation into me. But suppose, for a 
moment, it was used as the sign of one of those sensations 
which we call flavors — the flavor of some remarkable foreign 
fruit — can the utterance of that word put the flavor, or the 
remembrance of that flavor, into me ? Certainly not — nothing 
on earth can do that but the fruit itself. 

But there is one more class of words to which I must call 
your attention. They chiefly end in th. These are generally 
the third persons singular indicative of verbs which you know 
end in th, as loveth } fight eth, heareth, sing eth, &c. &c. The 
words which I am about to mention are another source of what 
have been so absurdly called abstract nouns — and form a 
beautiful example of that abbreviated manner of speech which 
mankind, as soon as they have made any progress towards 
civilization, are compelled to adopt for the sake of dispatch. 
Each of these words stands for a whole sentence. 
Girth — signifies that which girdeth, gird'th, girth. 
Warmth — that which warmeth, warm'th, warmth. 
Filth — whatsoever filet h . 

Wealth — that which enricheth — from welegian, to enrich. 
Health — that which causeth one to be hale or whole. 
Growth — that which groweth. 
Drought — That which dry eth. 

Strength — that which string eth or maketh one to be strong. 
Mouth — that which feedeth — from matjan, to feed. 
Tooth — that which tuggeth — from teogan, to tug. 
Faith — that which one covenanteth or engageth. It was for- 
merly written fiaieth. 

" Sainct Paule speaketh of them, where he writeth that the 



WORDS AND THINGS. 171 

tyme should come when some erring in the faieth, shoulde 
prohibite mariage." — Dr. Martin of priestes' unlauful manages. 
"In Sainct Gregorie's daies, at whose handes Englande was 
learned the faieth of Christ." 

Smith — one who smitheth, i. e. with the hammer. This name 
was given to all who smote with the hammer. What 
we now call a carpenter was also anciently called a smith. 
The French word carpenter was not introduced until 
about the reign of Edward the Third. 
Stealth— the manner by which one stealeth. 
Earth — that which one ereth, or eareth, i. e. plougheth. It is 
the third singular indicative of erian, to ere, to eare, 
to plough. 
"He that erith, owith to ere in hope." — 1 Corinthies } ix. 
u I have an halfe acre to erie by the hygh waye. 
Had I eried thy halfe acre, and sowed it after, 
I woulde wend wyth you." — Vis. of P. Ploughman. 
Ought — that which one oweth, i. e. to himself or others. 
Light — which the Anglo-Saxons wrote leohteth } leohth, and 
leoht — is the third person indicative of leohtan, to illumi- 
nate — that which illuminateth. 
" What is truth? You know when Pilate had asked the same 
question, he went out and would not stay for the answer. And 
from that time to this, mankind have been wrangling and tearing- 
each other to pieces for the truth, without once considering the 
meaning of the word." It was formerly written troweth, trowth, 
trouth, and troth — and means that which one troweth or thinketh. 
True, as we now write it, or trew, as it was formerly written, 
means simply and merely that which is trowed. As the verbs 
to blow, crow, grow, know, throw, give us blew, crew, grew, knew, 
threw ; so the verb to trow, gave us trew for its past tense, which 
past tense the Anglo-Saxons constantly used as we now use a 
past participle. The word w T as perpetually written trew, by all 
our ancient authors, in prose and verse, from the time of Edward 
the Third to Edward the Sixth. 

That every man in his communication with others should 
speak that which he troweth, is of so great importance to man- 
kind, that it ought not to surprise us, if we find the most 

o 2 



172 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

extravagant and exaggerated praises bestowed upon truth. But 
there is manifestly no such thing as eternal and immutable 
truth, as it is sometimes called. Two persons may contradict 
each other, and yet both speak the truth ; for that which one 
man troweth, i. e. thinketh, may be directly opposite to that 
which another man troweth, or thinketh. To speak the truth 
may be a vice as well a virtue ; for there are many occasions 
when we ought not to speak that which we trow. 

What is that then for which mankind have been quarrelling 
ever since the days of Pontius Pilate ? You see what it is — that 
which one troweth. 

" But I think I need proceed no farther in this course ; and 
that I have already said enough, perhaps too much, to show 
what sort of operation that is which has been called abstraction." 
It is an operation, not of the mind, but of language. 

When Rabelais was dying, he said he was going in search of 
a great May-Be. The martyrs of all countries who have died for 
what they called the truth, have voluntarily suffered death for a 
Me-Thinks. 

Truly says one of the writers for the Society for the Diffusion 
of Useful Knowledge : " The majority of mankind pay an 
habitual veneration to words, and this species of adoration is not 
exempt from fanaticism. It would not be difficult to find men 
who would willingly suffer any privations and tortures, and even 
death, for the sake of certain words. * * * * And it is almost 
always for want of attaching the same ideas to the same ivords 
that men misunderstand each other, dispute, and sometimes 
come to blows." 

B. 

I have observed that, although you have asserted that all 
words are merely the names of sensations, yet have you often, 
while speaking, called them the names of things. How is this ? 

A. 

Because, whenever we speak of a thing, we do, in fact, always 
mean the sensation which that thing communicates to our organs, 
and nothing else. Por the sensations communicated by things 
are all that we know, or ever can know, of the things them- 
selves. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 173 

B. 

But it does not appear to me that you have yet proved that 
all these words which you have selected from Home Tooke, 
as evidences against the doctrine of abstraction, are the names 
either of things or sensations. 

A. 
Indeed ! Be good enough to mention one. 

B. 
I will mention a very common one — the word fact for 
instance. Is fact the name of a thing? 

A. 
Yes, indeed is it — the name of several things. It signifies, 
you know, something, anything, done. 

B. 
Something, anything, done ! Well, but what is that some- 
thing ? For to say that it is the name of something, anything, 
seems to me pretty much the same as saying that it is the name 
of nothing. 

A. 
But I did not say merely that it is the name of something, but 
of something done. Pray tell me, is the word tree the name of a 
thing ? 

B. 
Undoubtedly. 

A. 
Of which of all those particular things which we call trees is 
it the name ? 

B. 
Of no one in particular. It is a general term. 

A. 
To be sure it is — and it is the name of some tree, any tree — 
just as fact is the name of something, anything, acted upon by 
something, anything else. But what the particular thing is, 
which has been acted upon, and what the particular agent which 
has acted upon it, is not determined, any more than the parti- 
cular tree is determined by the general term tree. When you 
pronounce the word tree, and pause — the ideas of a multitude 
of trees will pass through your mind. And the word tree is the 



174 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

name of all, or any of them, but of no one in particular. When 
you pronounce the word fact, or the words something done, and 
pause — there will pass through your mind the ideas of a multi- 
tude of things which you have seen done— accidents which you 
have seen happen — a glass broken, a coach overturned, the door 
shut, the box opened, &c. The word fact, or the phrase some- 
thing done, (of which the word fact is the immediate sign) is the 
name of all, or of any one of these things which you have seen 
done, but of no one in particular. Tell me, if I ask you to draw 
upon paper the representation of a tree, cannot you do so ? 

B. 
Certainly. And I should probably draw that tree with which 
I happened to be most familiar, or which I fancied I could draw 
most easily, 

A. 
And cannot you draw a fact upon paper ? 

B. 
No. I cannot draw an action. 

A. 
Cannot you draw something done upon paper ? 

B. 
Indeed I cannot. If I could draw on paper a something done, 
I could draw a fact upon paper, since they both mean the same 
thing. 

A. 
Cannot you draw upon paper a glass broken, that is, a broken 
glass ? 

B. 
Yes — I can certainly do that. 

A. 
And is not a glass broken a something done, i. e. a fact ? 
Evidently it is so. But something done is a general term, like 
the word tree ; whereas a glass broken, or an ox slaughtered, i. e. 
a broken glass, or a slaughtered ox, is a particular term, defining 
the particular action, and the particular object affected by that 
action ; just as the word poplar, or oak, or elm, is a particular 
term, defining a particular tree. The phrase something done 
signifies some one thing which has been altered in appearance, 



WORDS AND THINGS. 175 

(or otherwise affected) by some other thing ; and when you draw 
upon paper the representation of a thing altered from its 
natural condition, you do in reality draw a thing which has been 
done, i. e. a thing which has been acted upon, whose former con- 
dition has been altered ; in a word, something done, or a fact. 

The word truth, whenever in modern writers it has a meaning 
at all, is always a mere substitution for some other word, and 
frequently for this very word fact. And it is this licentious sub- 
stitution of one word for another which has had so large a share 
in confusing language, and confounding the common sense of 
mankind. 

In reading, or talking, we are not conscious, certainly, of the 
presence of these pictures or drawings in our minds individually, 
but they all help to make up a larger group of ideas which enter 
the mind at once, together. A whole sentence (if it be not too 
long) may be very justly likened to one long word which sug- 
gests to the mind one very large group of ideas, all at once, just 
as the word field suggests to the mind a multitude of ideas 
constituting what we call a field, and consisting of grass, flowers, 
hedges, and probably cattle grazing in it, altogether and at 
once — or as the word town suggests at once to the mind a 
multitude of houses, streets, churches, people, &c. But every 
word in the sentence, nevertheless, if uttered slowly, will be 
found to bring before the mind one or more of the individual 
ideas which help to make up the whole group — or rather, every 
word is the name of a smaller, which helps to make up the 
larger, group. It must be so ; otherwise those words which 
were the names of nothing, or which suggested nothing, might 
be left out of the sentence, and the sense remain unaltered. 

All cultivated languages are abbreviated languages, and the 
abbreviations require to be explained before they can be under- 
stood, or used to communicate knowledge ; just as short-hand is 
an abbreviated written language, whose abbreviated signs must 
be understood before they can convey to us any knowledge — 
before we can understand short-hand. If a man does not under- 
stand the meaning of these abbreviated forms of speech, such as 
intellect,- truth, &c, he is, when he reads, in the condition of an 
uneducated person who, in every second or third line of his 



176 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

book, meets with a Greek or Latin word. Before he can pro- 
perly understand clearly what he is reading, these Greek and 
Latin words must be translated into the words which they stand 
for in his own language. And so, before a man can understand 
what he is reading or hearing, he must translate these abbreviated 
expressions into the words which they stand for, as he goes along. 
If he do not this, the most senseless unmeaning trash will be 
perpetually imposed upon him for common sense, and sound 
philosophy. Oh ! if we did but pay the same attention to lan- 
guage, in matters of philosophy, as we never fail to do in all 
matters of pounds, shillings, and pence, what a miraculous 
change would be wrought in the opinions and conduct of man- 
kind in a moment ! If we were as determined to have things in 
exchange for words as we are to have gold in exchange for paper, 
how soon should we become rich in knowledge. 

Whenever you meet, therefore, with one of these abbreviated 
forms of speech, if you would not have " fustian" palmed upon 
you for " philosophy," always translate it, just as you would do 
a Greek or Latin word, into the words which it stands for. 

Formerly, the only mode of communicating knowledge, or 
ideas, or sensations, in writing, was the hieroglyphic, or, more 
properly, pictorial. But I maintain that all language whatever, 
whether written or spoken, is, in reality, pictorial. Anciently 
they delineated pictures, and presented them to the eye. What 
we now do is merely this — we do not draw the pictures on paper 
certainly ; but, having seen the pictures in nature, and having 
given names to them, the utterance of those names causes us to 
remember the pictures. 

B. 

But this can only apply to visible things. 

A. 

True. But the organs of hearing, of touch, of taste, and of 
smell, altogether, furnish us with so minute a portion of know- 
ledge, when compared with that which we derive from the organs 
of sight, that it is scarcely worth while to mention it. But 
though the sensations furnished us by the ear, the skin, the nose, 
the palate cannot, in strict propriety, be called pictures, yet are 
they, like the ideal pictures just mentioned, sensations caused to 



WORDS AND THINGS, 177 

be remembered by the utterance of their names. These, I say, 
though all highly important to the well-being of man, numeri- 
cally considered, are as nothing when compared with those 
multitudinous hosts of sensations or ideas which we acquire 
through the eye. 

It must be further considered, also, that all those sensations 
which we derive through the ear, the skin, the nose, and palate, 
are precisely the same, and scarcely more numerous than those 
acquired by the horse or the dog, through the same organs. All 
those ideas or sensations which we acquire through the skin, the 
ear, the palate, the nose, may be equally well acquired by the 
dog as by his master. There is no odor, no flavor, no sound, 
no sensation of the skin, such as hardness, softness, roughness, 
smoothness, heat, cold, pain, &c. &c. which may not manifestly 
be equally as well acquired by the dog as by man. The internal 
sensations, too — the animal instincts, appetites, and passions — 
are precisely the same in man as in the brute. 

Our superiority of knowledge, therefore — all that part of our 
knowledge which we possess, but which the dog never can 
possess — all those sensations or ideas which are unattainable by 
the mere animal, consists of those ideas or sensations solely 
which we derive through the eye. And the reason why these 
sensations or ideas of visible objects are so multiplied in man, 
and his reasoning power so much greater, I have already 
shown, is owing to his faculty of speech (chiefly), and the 
organization of the human hand. That part of our know- 
ledge, too, which relates to human appetites and propensities — 
even this we acquire by observing the effects which we see them 
produce. 

With this insignificant exception, therefore, of those sensa- 
tions which we derive through the ear, the skin, the palate, and 
the nose, I must beg to be understood, when I repeat, that all 
language, whether written or spoken, in every country of the 
earth, is, though not in actual reality, yet virtually and in effect , 
strictly pictorial. And I further assert, that no language which 
is not, in this manner, pictorial, can be other than an unin- 
telligible jargon. For the nature of man, the nature of words, 
and the nature of things, prove that it must be so. 



178 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

Phonetic and literal language possesess two advantages over 
the pictorial of the Egyptians — and only two. It also possesses 
one stupendous disadvantage. One of the advantages of literal and 
phonetic language is this. A sensation derived not through the 
eye, could only be represented pictorially by drawing that visible 
object most remarkable for producing that sensation. Thus the 
sensation of cold could only be represented by drawing snow or 
ice. And it would not always be clear whether this object itself 
were intended, or the sensation which that object was known 
constantly to produce. For the same reason they could not 
represent a body in motion. But in modern language we have 
one name for the object, and another for the sensation — or 
rather, we have two different names for the two different sensa- 
tions produced by one object — one for the sensation produced 
on the nerves of the skin, and another for the sensation produced 
on the eye — and this sort of obscurity is avoided. The other 
advantage, and it is, as society is now constituted, a most 
important one, is dispatch. 

The great disadvantage is, that, being more complicated, and 
not properly understood, it has been productive of a large 
amount of human error, and therefore human misery. 

B. 

The manner in which you have explained the meaning of the 
word truth — 

A. 

It is not I who have explained its meaning. It was Home 
Tooke who cracked that nut, and showed that it contained 
nothing but a Me-Thinks for its kernel. He has gone to the tomb 
of his fathers. But he has left his crackers behind him ; and, 
borrowing these crackers, I now proceed to apply them to other 
moral and political, but chiefly political, nuts. I proceed to 
trace Home Tooke's principle of language up to its inevitable 
consequences. I will at all events, attempt to complete, as far 
as my time and other occupations will allow, Home Tooke's 
uncompleted philosophy — the which if I can do, to any 
extent, I shall render, says the Examiner, "good service." But 
the Examiner sometimes writes in so great a hurry that I fear 
he is not always aware of the full extent of that which he says. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 179 

In my dedication I have asserted that the history of the 
ancients " is a fable, and their philosophy a farce /' and that no 
sound philosophy can be derived from the study of them, except- 
ing only certain scientific facts to some of which I have there 
alluded. This assertion, the Examiner says, he is privileged to 
call "stupid/' and he expressly declares that he has derived that 
privilege from the study of the ancients. I hope this is not the 
only privilege which the Examiner has derived from that source. 
Because he needed not have travelled so far as Greece and Rome 
to have acquired the privilege of calling names. He might have 
acquired it much nearer home, and also the most approved 
manner of exercising it. 

When I said that the history of the ancients " is a fable," I 
was speaking and thinking of the ancients only. I now, how- 
ever, repeat the assertion ; and add, that not only ancient history, 
but all history whatever, (with the single exception of sacred 
history) whether ancient or modern, is, and must necessarily be, 
fabulous. But the Examiner wrote in so great a hurry, and 
thought so little about what he was writing, that he entirely 
forgot to distinguish between history and chronology. If 
by history he understand merely the arrangement of certain 
facts and events under their respective dates, then, I say, this 
belongs to the province of chronology — a province so far from 
being identical with that of history, that it has been found 
necessary to give it a different name, for the very purpose of 
distinguishing it from history, and of preventing the very thing 
which the Examiner has done — confounding the two together. 
History affects to do much more than this. It affects to make 
us acquainted with human motives, the principles of human 
actions, the characters of celebrated men. But in case the 
Examiner should deny that this is peculiarly the province of 
history, I will give him such an authority for it as he especially 
shall not dare to dispute — the authority of one who was both a 
great statesman and a great lawyer, both a philosopher and a 
scholar, but moreover, and above all, one among the most 
celebrated of the Examiner's favourite ancients — the authority 
of Marcus Tullius Cicero. " It is the first law of history/' says 
Cicero, f( that the writer should neither dare to advance what is 



180 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

false, nor to suppress what is true ; that he should relate the 
facts with strict impartiality, free from ill-will or favor ; that 
his narrative should distinguish the order of time, and, when 
necessary, give the description of places ; that he should unfold 
the statesman's motives, and in his account of the transac- 
tions and the events interpose his own judgment; and should 
not only relate what was done, but how it was done ; and what 

SHARE CHANCE, OR RASHNESS, OR PRUDENCE, HAD IN THE 

issue ; that he should give the characters of leading men, their 
weight and influence, their passions, their principles, and their 
conduct through life." 

Now, I say that no human being (not being inspired) can by 
any possibility " unfold the motives" of another — that no merely 
human being can tell " what share chance, or rashness, or pru- 
dence/' has had in any " issue" whatever. I say, moreover, that 
he who " interposes his own judgment" does but give a human, 
and therefore a fallible, opinion, which may be right, or may be 
wrong — and that there is scarcely any " leading man" — I think 
I might say, not one — about whose " character" all historians 
perfectly agree. And if all historians do not agree about a 
man's character, then that character remains, to the present 
day, doubtful, that is, fabulous. And if doubtful, I herewith ask 
the Examiner, what sort of philosophy that must be which is 
built on a doubtful foundation ? I will tell the Examiner what 
sort of philosophy it must be. It must and can be only that 
sort of philosophy which gives men the "privilege" of calling 
names. For the word fabulous does not mean false. It means 
merely doubtful. The word fable means simply a relation, ivith- 
out any reference to its truth or falsehood, and therefore leaving 
it wholly undetermined whether that relation be true or false — 
in a word, leaving its truth or falsehood doubtful. Nor is this 
a forced meaning of my own. It is the meaning given even by 
the dictionaries. If the Examiner will refer to Dr. Adam 
Littleton's Latin dictionary for the word fabula, he will find its 
meaning given in the following words ; " A fable — a story, 
whether true or false." The very etymology of the word shows 
its meaning— coming, as it does, from fabulor, the diminutive 
of for, which signifies simply to speak, whether that which is 
spoken be true or false. 



WORDS AND THINGS. 181 

Again, therefore, I assert that all history whatever, pretend- 
ing, as it peculiarly does, to unfold human motives — to record 
the principles of human actions — to decide what share chance 
has had in any issue — is fabulous — that is doubtful — and cannot 
be made the foundation of a sure philosophy. Brutus stabbed 
Csesar in the senate-house. Some say his motive was one of 
pure patriotism, others say envy and hatred of Caesar's popu- 
larity formed his principle of action. Will the Examiner under- 
take to place this question beyond the reach of doubt ? Appius 
Claudius Pulcher degraded Sallust from his senatorial rank. 
Some say it was on account of Sallust's amour with Fausta, the 
daughter of Sylla, and wife of Milo. But others say he did it 
in order to conciliate the favor of Cicero. Will the Examiner 
set this question at rest ? The poet Ovid was banished from the 
court of Augustus. Will the examiner tell us for what ? To 
come nearer our own times, will the Examiner set at rest for 
ever all the disputes about the real character of Mary Queen of 
Scotland ? Will he " unfold the motives" of Elizabeth of Eng- 
land in putting her to death ? Some say they were warrantably 
politic — some say she was jealous of Mary's beauty — others that 
it was all a mistake. To come still nearer our own times, was 
Caroline of England undoubtedly innocent or guilty ? But why 
heap instance on instance ? What are the newspapers of Tues- 
day but the histories of Monday? Do they agree in their 
accounts of the " principles of action," "the motives/'' the 
" characters," of the " leading men'' of the present day ? Can 
the accounts given in any one paper of the principles of action 
of any one statesman be relied on as undoubted? And if we 
cannot rely on the histories written to-day of actions and events 
which happened yesterday, beyond the mere record and date of 
their occurrence, how can we put undoubting faith in those 
which were written hundreds of years ago, of motives, and 
principles of action and characters, which existed hundreds of 
years before that ? Even that portion of history founded on the 
accidental discovery of private letters is doubtful, and cannot be 
relied on. For what more common, than for men to disguise 
their real motives even from their most intimate friends ? Nay, 
even from themselves ? All beyond the mere record of dates, 



182 CONNEXION BETWEEN 

names, places, and events, is doubtful, untrustworthy, fabulous-— 
a traditionary tale, colored and modified by the passions, and 
prejudices, and party politics of him who tells it. Had Milton 
written a history of the life and reign and character of Charles 
the First, and of the life and reign and Protectorate of Oliver 
Cromwell, would it have agreed with the account given of the 
same, in a history written by such a man as Dr. Samuel 
Johnson? The Examiner must know that the two accounts 
would have been as opposite as light to darkness. Has the 
Examiner read the history of England by Hume and Smollet ? 
Yes — -undoubtedly. But has he also read Dr. Lingard's ? Let 
him compare the two. Again — -how many of the political acts 
of the reign of Charles the Second had their origin in the con- 
cealed back-stairs influence of intriguing courtiers, and how 
many in the smiles and wiles, the frowns and fascinations, of 
Charles's favourite mistresses ? Can the Examiner tell ? Can 
any historian tell ? Can the Examiner, or any historian, mea- 
sure out and determine how much of the events in France, 
during the reigns of the Marchioness de Pompadour, and 
Madame de Maintenon, was owing to the secret influence of 
those ladies ? How much to the " passions" and caprices of 
their kingly lovers ? How much was effected solely by the 
" prudence" of legislators ? And how much by " chance ?" 

As to that part of my assertion which declares that the philo- 
sophy of the ancients is a farce, I cannot suppose that the 
Examiner meant to object to that; and therefore, I have nothing 
more to say upon that subject. 

The reply I have here given to the Examiner will serve also for 
the Spectator. 

But the Spectator assures his readers that my style is " flip- 
pant." Well, be it so — since the Spectator says it is, let it be 
conceded at once that it is so — I am sure I have no objection. 
But would the Spectator have a man, who is talking with his 
friend, by his own fire-side, speak after the manner of an epic 
poet ? or in the style of "Paul Preaching" ? But there is one 
thing I am very anxious to know — and that is, what in the 
world the Spectator, or his readers, or my readers, have to do 
with my style ? For my own part, I never care three straws 



WORDS AND THINGS. 183 

about the style of any book. I only look to the matter. If the 
matter be good, the manner cannot make it bad — and if the 
matter be bad, the manner cannot make it good. " Oh ! there 
is a husk and shell, Yorick, which grows up with learning, 
which their unskilfulness knows not how to throw away. 
Sciences may he learned by rote, but wisdom not" The husks 
and shells, therefore, I bequeath to the Spectator — the kernels 
to my readers. But, notwithstanding my long quotations from 
Lord Bacon, John Locke, Home Tooke, Bishop Wilkins, I am, 
says the Spectator, " self sufficient" — that is to say, I see with 
my own eyes, and not other people's. Would that the Spectator, 
and everybody else, would do the same ! But I speak too confi- 
dently ! If a man do not feel confident that what he says is 
right, surely he had much better hold his tongue. And if he 
do feel confident — if there be a confidence in his heart which he 
denies with his tongue — such diffidence is mere hypocrisy, and 
a vile pandering to the self-love of mankind — it is putting a 
thief into " their heads to steal away their brains." I leave such 
policy to the improving purists, the intellectualizing perfection- 
ists, the political schoolmasters, the moral pedagogues, of the 
present day. When I am staring with both my eyes at St. Paul's 
Cathedral, if a man ask me what I see, I answer honestly, at 
once — "I see a church, sir." But the Spectator would have me 
say, " I believe — I speak with all deference — but it is certainly 
my opinion — that I see what seems to be — a church, sir." 

Such is the criticism of the Spectator. It is what Sterne 
would call the " stop-watch" criticism. " And how did Garrick 
speak the soliloquy last night ? — Oh ! against all rule, my Lord, 
most ungrammatically ! Betwixt the nominative case and the verb 
he suspended his voice, a dozen times, three seconds and three- 
fifths, by a stop-watch, my Lord, each time. Admirable gram- 
marian ! But in suspending his voice, was the sense suspended 
likewise ? Did no expression of countenance fill up the chasm ? 
Was the eye silent ? Did you narrowly look ? — I looked only at 
the stop-watch, my Lord. Excellent observer ! And what of 
this new book the whole world makes such a rout about ? Oh ! 
it is out of all plumb, my Lord — I had my rule and compasses 
in my pocket, &c. — Excellent critic !" 



184 CONNEXION BETWEEN WORDS AND THINGS. 

But the Spectator imagined I spoke disparagingly of the 
judge's wig. Does the Spectator really think -the wisdom's in 
the wig? But he entirely mistook me. One of our judges, 
not long since, said publicly, that he hoped to see the day when 
those useless encumbrances would be thrown aside. So do not 
I. For though there be no wisdom in the wig, there is much 
faith in it. And the faith which the public has in it, is, in my 
opinion, quite as important to the public welfare, as the wisdom 
that is under it. 

B. 

That word faith reminds me of a question I have been on the 
point of asking you two or three times. Is there not something 
in these doctrines about things and sensations which is at vari- 
ance with revealed religion ? 

A. 

Not in the slightest degree. Religion is purely and emphati- 
cally a matter of faith, not of reason — a thing of the heart, not 
of the head. It rests on evidence beyond the reach of reason — 
eaith, revelation, miracles — and it requires us to believe, 
not to argue. The religion of reason is, in fact, no religion at 
all. But false friends, and foolish friends, (the worst of all 
enemies) are diligently sapping the foundations of her temple • 
while the latter, in the folly and blindness of their hearts, fondly 
imagine they are building buttresses to strengthen her walls. 
It is in vain that these latter fill the hands of the people (I 
speak of the working masses) with exhortations to believe, while 
exhortations to argue, and reason, and cavil, and doubt, in the 
shape of small smatterings of science and philosophy, are daily 
and hourly thrust down their throats by the former. To believe, 
is to be happy — to inquire, is to doubt — and to doubt, is to be 
miserable. And this is as true in politics as in religion. 



INTELLECT. 185 



CHAPTER VI 



INTELLECT. 



B 

I presume, now that you have shown the manner in which 
Home Tooke cracked those little nuts called conjunctions, 
prepositions, adverbs, &c. and showed that each had a proper 
kernel of its own, you have now nothing more to do than to 
submit more important words to the same process. So, as the 
sailors say, "crack on." 

Much has been said of late years about the "march of 
intellect" I confess I could never very clearly understand the 
phrase. Suppose you begin, therefore, with that word intellect. 

A. 

With all my heart. Yes — it is now my business to show 
that those important words, which seem at present to serve no 
other earthly purpose than that of setting mankind together by 
the ears, for want of understanding their true meaning ; just as 
the prepositions and conjunctions did the scholiasts of all 
cultivated nations up to the time of Home Tooke — it is, I say, 
my business now to show that those words have, like the 
conjunctions, each its own intrinsic meaning — and that unless 
each be used according to its own inherent sense, it necessarily 
becomes an unintelligible word — having then only an arbitrary 
meaning, which, I have already shown, is precisely the same as 
having none at all — and becomes, not only a prolific source of 
the bitterest disputes and heart-burnings, but an instrument, a 
tool, a magician's wand, in the hands of the designing, where- 
withal to cajole mankind. 

It is my business now further to show that it is the fact of 
our having lost sight of the true meaning of certain important 



186 INTELLECT. 

words — the fact of our totally misunderstanding the true use 
and application of certain nouns- — the fact of our entire 
ignorance of the real office which certain words perform in 
language — which has led us to personify and poetically embody 
things that have no existence — which has induced us to give 
" a local habitation and a name" to things which have neither 
name nor habitation of any sort. 

Not accustomed to look beneath the surface of language — ■ 
taught to call certain words nouns — that is, names — and 
naturally concluding that there can be no names for things 
which have no existence — and, looking through the universe and 
not being able to find a thing for every name — the result has 
been this — rather than submit to the apparent absurdity of 
having names without corresponding things, we have committed 
the real absurdity of imagining things to correspond with names. 

I would further show that the mischief has not stopped here 
- — but that it has proceeded to exercise a mighty and constantly 
accumulating influence — not indeed apparent nor direct— but a 
concealed and indirect, but resistless influence over our moral 
and political condition — and that that influence is not one which 
conduces to the happiness and welfare of man, but precisely 
the contrary. I say this influence is not a direct, but an 
indirect and secret one. And for this reason it cannot be 
opposed by direct and straightforward argument. If you set a 
weasel to chase a rabbit, you do so in vain, unless you first take 
the precaution to stop up all the outlets from the rabbit's 
burrow. If you hunt a thief to his den, your labor will be in 
vain, unless you have first taken the precaution to close all the 
back doors, and have placed a sentinel on the watch at each of 
them. 

If, therefore, I have not gone straight to my work — if I have 
seemed to proceed in a round-about way — if you have Jnot 
always been able to discover the target at which I aimed when I 
loosed the arrow — in a word, if you have not always been able 
to discover my drift, I beseech you to believe and take for 
granted that there was some back door or concealed wicket 
which I found it necessary to close ; and that if you could not 
see it, it was probably owing to your not having examined the 



INTELLECT. 187 

premises with so careful an eye as I have long been accustomed 
to do. 

One word more. This question is one of human happiness — 
purely and exclusively a question of human happiness. Let us 
discuss it with the temper of two men who have engaged to 
bore a certain plot of ground in hopes of discovering a gold 
mine; and who have engaged to share the bullion (if any) 
between them. In that case, the one would not throw unneces- 
sary obstructions in the other's way. On the contrary, each 
would be anxious to aid, as much as possible, in removing 
obstructions, of whatever kind. Having a mutual and common 
interest, each would do all he could to aid the efforts of the 
other. If the one brought to the work the best tools he could 
procure, the other would not abuse him because he could procure 
no better ; but would point out to him wherein his tools were 
deficient, and would assist him in remedying that deficiency. 
All men are loud in their praises of truth. All men pretend to 
love it above all earthly things — and to seek it with a panting 
eagerness. Mere false pretence, and shallow self-imposition ! 
If a man go to another and tell him that he has strong reason 
to believe that there exists a valuable bed of coal* on his estate, 
hitherto not thought of, aud request leave to ascertain the fact 
by boring — with what a smiling welcome would such informa- 
tion be received ! How readily would the permission sought be 
granted ! How speedily would laborers be summoned to assist 
in the operation ! How eagerly would he himself hurry with 
his informant to the land of promise! With what alacrity 
would he strip off his coat, seize upon the tools, and buckle to 
the task — he, even he himself ! If he reasoned at all against 
the probability of success, how feebly would his arguments be 
urged, and how patiently and willingly would he listen to every 
new reason alleged in favor of it ! Now what is the reason of 
this ? The answer is plain enough. Because he is really and 
truly anxious to discover the treasure. And because he says to 
himself : " if I do not succeed, what then ? I am but where I 
was — and there is no harm done." 

But go to the same man with the information that you have 
* Carbon will observe that I have adopted his hint. 

P % 



188 INTELLECT. 

reason to believe you have discovered a new truth in moral and 
political philosophy. Need I draw the opposite picture ? Need 
I dwell in detail on the very different reception with which such 
information would be received ? Oh ! no — every body knows 
with what languid indifference it would be met, if the hearer's 
character happened to be of the apathetic kind — and with what 
taunting scorn, and vexatious opposition, and reiterated and 
Protean obstruction, every attempt to bore for it would be 
impeded, if the man's constitution happened to be leavened with 
a quick and vivacious temper. And why is this ? Nothing can 
be easier than the answer ; because the man, in this case, is not 
anxious to discover the treasure ? No, that is not it either — but 
it is, because he loves his own old prejudices, right or wrong, 
so infinitely better than the truth, that he will fight for them 
through thick and thin ; and if, at last, compelled to admit the 
truth, he does so with pain and regret, and not until its bright- 
ness has almost dazzled him blind. 

You may, if you please, call the rest of our conversation, 
an argument for things as they are in opposition to that 
eternal and senseless halloo ! after -things unattainable — 
that ceaseless clamour for improvement — that phantom-hunt 
after an impossible perfection — that everlasting cry for intel- 
lectualizing the people— with which the people have been gulled 
—with which the people have been swindled out of the happiness 
of contentment. But let us see what the word intellect really 
means. Like the word fact, it is purely a Latin word, with 
the Latin article um cut off behind, and the English article the 
or an put on before, in order to give it an English appearance — 
just as you would shave off the moustache of a Frenchman and 
give him an English accent — or, just as you would cut off the 
beard of a Jew and give him an honest expression of counte- 
nance — in order to make them seem English. But, of course, 
this can have no more effect upon the sense, than the shaving 
the lip and chin of the Frenchman and Jew can have any effect 
in altering the inherent qualities of the men. The Latin word is 
intellect -um — cut off the um and we have, at once, our so-called 
English word intellect — which, if it have any meaning at all, 
must and can only mean like the Latin whole word intellect-um, 



INTELLECT. 189 

anything , something, understood — or, more shortly, thus: that 
which is understood. The mongrel -phrase in question, there- 
fore — for it is a mongrel-phrase, being half Latin, half French 
(for march is a French word) — signifies when translated into 
English, the march of that which is understood. 

B. 

That may be, and I believe certainly is, its proper meaning; 
but, in the phrase above, it is used instead of the word mind — 
i. e. the thinking principle. 

A. 

I shall show you presently that as the word intellect is a Latin 
word whose meaning has been forgotten, so mind is an Anglo- 
Saxon word whose meaning has been forgotten — forgotten by 
some, purposely misunderstood by others, and never known to 
the great majority. 

B. 

But even accordingly with your own showing, this phrase has 
after all an intelligible meaning. The " march of intellect" 
" the march of that which is understood" — may, I think, very 
properly be made to signify " increase of knowledge." 

A. 

Certainly — and " the march of intellect" must mean the 
progress of knowledge — the word progress answering to the 
word march, and the word intellect answering to the word know- 
ledge. And thus it becomes clear that intellect, if it mean 
anything at all, must signify knowledge, and nothing else — or 
that, if it be used to signify anything else, it can only be by a 
mere arbitrary substitution of it for some other word. 

But is this the sense in which it is used by those who have 
the word perpetually in their mouths? — who hawk it about 
at the corners of our streets, and cry it from the house- 
tops, until three-fourths of mankind have gone mad about 
it ? It is not. They use it to designate some extraordinary 
and incomprehensible separate something, peculiar, and exclu- 
sively peculiar, to man — as though a well-taught setter-dog was 
not as surely and undeniably an intellectual animal as his 
master ! That is, an animal capable of knowing ! They use it 
as a blow-pipe wherewith they have inflated human vanity until 



190 INTELLECT. 

it struts the earth— a monster neither brute nor human- — but 
proclaiming itself " liker a god." They use it as the name of 
a clear, broad, and unmistakeable line of demarcation — as the 
sign of an impassable gulph — separating the brute from man- — 
as a something or other which the brute does not, nor can, nor 
could by any possible supposition, possess, in common with 
man, without wholly and entirely changing his brute-nature. 
And thus human vanity is flattered that human wisdom may be 
gulled. 

The mischief arising from this false doctrine is incalculable. 
For man, priding himself on the possession of this phantom 
distinction, and clinging to it with a fonder attachment, because 
it is the only thing which the brute does not possess as he is 
taught to believe in common with himself — scornfully, and with 
indignation, refuses to derive even happiness itself from its 
legitimate sources, for no other earthly reason than because it is 
from the same sources that the happiness of the brute is also 
derived. He disdains (or cheats himself into the belief that he 
disdains) to love or be pleased with anything that gives equal 
pleasure to the brute — he will not share even happiness with the 
beast of the field — no — but, curling his lip and snuffing np the 
air, he will rather submit to a life of actual wretchedness. He 
will wear away the energies both of body and brain in a ceaseless 
and fruitless hunt after a happiness which is unattainable, 
because he will not share, in common with the brute, the happi- 
ness which God has so bountifully and benevolently placed 
within his reach. 

He cannot be an angel, and he will not be a man. 

In the pride of his heart, hear him ! With what a scornful 
and affected pity he speaks of the animals below him. The 
meanest of the human race would feel himself covered with 
obloquy and shame were he seriously likened to a brute, even by 
the most distant allusion. Were you to reason with the most 
accomplished scholar and philosopher on the best means of 
obtaining happiness — and were you to point to the rudest and 
wholly uneducated boor as he follows his plough, and whistles 
as he goes for want of thought ; or saunters with his sweetheart 
by the hedge-row side, in the summer twilight — and say to him, 



INTELLECT. 191 

" is not that boor a happier man than yourself ?" — whether he 
agreed with you or not, he would certainly see nothing monstrous 
in the question, nor absurd ; and would not deny it to be a 
legitimate species of argument, whether sound or unsound. But 
if you were reasoning with that very boor, upon the same 
subject, and were to point to the ox, luxuriating at his ease in 
the shadow of his tree, and say to him : " is not that ox happy 
in his ignorance — happier far than if he were taught to think, 
and to know that he is but fattening for the slaughter-house — 
to reason upon the evils inseparable from his condition, and 
which, let him reason as he will, he cannot avoid" — if, I say* 
you were to talk thus to that boor, he would not listen to it for 
a moment — he would not give it an instant's consideration — he 
would start from you as though you had thrown an adder in 
his face, and would angrily demand of you how you dared to 
liken him — htm — an intellectual being — to the beast of the field? 
And thus his pride will not suffer him to profit. And yet I say 
there is not so great a difference, in the amount of intellect, that 
is, knowledge, between that ox and that boor, as between that 
boor and that philosopher. It is thus that these would-be 
improvers and menders of the human race, these intellectual 
tinkers, taking advantage of the self-love of men, cheat them of 
substantial happiness- — make them dissatisfied with their inevi- 
table condition — and send them sweating and toiling on a wild- 
goose chase after a phantom. The great mass of the people 
may have plenty to eat, and plenty to drink — they may be well 
clothed, and comfortably lodged — and time sufficient for healthy 
recreation, and social enjoyment. But what then ? These are 
but mere sensual enjoyments, which they only share with the 
beasts of the field ! What ! shall intellectual man be content to 
be happy after the manner of the grazing brute? Does he not 
move erect and perpendicular to the earth's surface, whereas the 
miserable brute moves horizontally ? And shall he stoop to be 
made happy, and to rest satisfied, with the simple gratification 
of the brutal passions ? the beastly appetites ? the vile, grovelling, 
filthy, despicable senses of the body ? Forbid it the dignity 
and grandeur of the human intellect ! No ! scourge them, whip 
them, mortify them, and show the world that ye are men and not 



19S INTELLECT. 

beasts! But why all this insane abuse of the human feelings 
and human enjoyments, with which the God who fashioned us 
has thought proper to endow us, and to make an absolute con- 
dition of our existence ? How can men reconcile it to their duty 
to God, to heap these insulting epithets upon the very means 
which he has employed, in his benevolent wisdom, obviously for 
the express purpose of making life a pleasure and not a pain ? 
But the secret of all this is, that the pride and the folly of man 
seek to establish a distinction and a difference between himself 
and the brute which God has denied him. 

B. 

But do you then admit no distinction between man and the 
brute ? 

A. 

No distinction ! yes, indeed-— and one which ought to satisfy 
the most inordinate cravings of vanity. For it is one which has 
given him dominion over almost every other living thing. It is 
moreover an appreciable difference— a something which we can 
know, and comprehend— and not an unsubstantial phantom like 
that which we call intellect. In short, it is human speech. Those 
who cannot < onceive that man owes the whole of his superiority 
to the gift of speech, together with those slight modifications in 
the organization of the brain and extremities which are necessary 
in order to make the gift of speech available — those, I say, who 
cannot conceive this — who cannot conceive that so mighty an 
end can possibly have been accomplished by so simple a contri- 
vance — who fancy it necessary, in order to account for the vast 
disparity in knowledge and power, between man and his slave, 
the brute — who find it necessary, I say, to invoke and conjure 
up certain undiscoverable ghosts of nothing, in order to aid in 
the solution of this problem — surely they forget that they are 
speaking of a divine and not a human contriver ; and can never 
have accustomed themselves to contemplate the operations of 
nature, of which the grandest and universal characteristic is, the 
accomplishment of stupendous results, by apparently insignificant 
means. Is not the " great globe itself" hung upon that which 
is less than a thread ? 

Had it been left to human contrivance to produce an animal 



INTELLECT. 193 

as superior to all other animals as man is — then indeed it is easy 
to conceive that so vast an effect could not have resulted from 
other than momentous and easily recognisable causes — and the 
earth would probably have been peopled with a race of unwieldy 
giants. But with the Divine Workman behold the difference ! 
A little alteration in the arrangement of the fibres of the tongue — 
a slight change in the moulding and modelling of the parts 
within the cavity of the mouth — and human speech is the result. 
Then a little modification in the organization of the brain, and the 
configuration of the extremities, in order to adapt the latter for 
the acquirement, and the former for the reception, of sensations 
to be still further multiplied by the intercommunication resulting 
from speech, and — out of the rude materials of the mere brute — 
behold the Lord of the Creation ! God breathes into him the 
spirit of eternal life, and — behold immortal man ! 

Look at yon rude daub of a landscape painting. Take it to a 
bungler to be improved. He will go over it carefully and pain- 
fully, leaf by leaf, and bough by bough — and finally leave it, 
altered indeed, but scarcely more like a real landscape than 
before. Now, take the same painting to a true genius. By a 
few masterly touches — by throwing in a dab of paint here, and 
another there — a lump in this place, and a lump in that — done, 
too, in a manner which, to an ordinary observer, would seem 
careless, indifferent, and inconsequential — but hang it up again 
and note the effect of these few off-hand touches — these slight and 
apparently incompetent changes — the result is magical — and the 
painting has become the antithesis of what it was. Such is the 
difference in the manner of working between genius and 
no-genius — between a human and an omnipotent contriver. 

In our last conversation I mentioned to you an instance of 
extraordinary musical talent in the person of young May, 
resident in the square in which I live. Dissect this boy's 
brain — dissect it inch by inch, and the structure of his internal 
ear, atom by atom — and you shall find no recognisable difference 
from the same structures in other heads. No — nature has only 
given these structures in him an additional touch or two, invisi- 
bly minute, yet capable of producing, for they have produced, 
an extraordinary amount of superiority, as far as it regards this 



194 INTELLECT. 

one musical power or faculty (call it what you please) over the 
ordinary run of human heads. But no one would dream it to 
be necessary, in order to account for this boy's great musical 
superiority, to imagine him attended by some subtile, immaterial 
Being, some separate something, peculiar to himself— denied to 
all others, excepting only those who have exhibited similar 
musical talents ! Oh ! no — some minute difference from the 
ordinary arrangement in the organization of parts is fully suffi- 
cient to account for the effect, great as it is. How exceedingly 
slight is the variation in the arrangement of organized parts, 
which is nevertheless sufficient to elevate what would otherwise 
have been little better than an idiot into that magnificent thing, 
a man of genius, is proved, I think conclusively, by observing 
how slight is the derangement — how minute the lesion of 
cerebral structure— which is sufficient to reduce the man of 
genius to a drivelling idiot. You make but an exceedingly 
slight change in the organization of a watch by removing the 
hands — yet this change, slight as it is, reduces a rare and most 
important machine to a useless bauble — and so, by an equally 
slight alteration made in a different direction, viz. that of adding 
the hands, the useless bauble becomes at once a most useful 
instrument of the highest importance. 

Let me here repeat once more for all, that I entirely agree 
with those who draw a broad line of distinction between mind 
and the soul. I have no concern whatever with man, other than 
as a human animal — it is with his nature while he continues to 
be a dweller on the earth, and with his earthly happiness alone, 
that I am in any way concerned, in all that I shall say in relation 
to him. Nor shall I utter a syllable which can be legitimately 
construed into hostility toward religion. But I shall show that 
universal education has an inevitable tendency to subvert all 
religion. For it teaches man to think, and to argue, while the 
very nature of things and circumstances renders it impossible 
for the masses to think and to argue correctly. They think and 
reason — but it is only about particular instances — while society, 
as well as the universe, is governed by laws which are not par- 
ticular, but general. It is the root of all our political evils — it is 
fast overwhelming the earth with a forced and undue popula- 



INTELLECT. 195 

tion — and can only end in a return, more or less complete, to 
barbarism, Those who are urging us on, with such furious 
eagerness, towards a fancied perfection, are, in fact, driving us 
towards an opposite condition. 

Extremes meet. 

The educational perfectionists point to sundry broken skulls 
returning from a fair, and they exclaim: "is it good that man 
— intellectual man — with a power to make himself "liker a 
god," should be suffered thus to make himself liker a beast ? 
Would it not be bettering his condition to abolish fairs, and 
teach him to sit at home and read the Penny Magazine V 
Why do not these men carry out the argument to its legitimate 
extreme, and ask whether it would not be for the interest of 
religion to abolish the lightning because it every now and then 
dashes down a church? These absurd questions, put with an 
air of so much triumph, can only be replied to by retorting 
others. Why has not God made the ass as perfect as the horse, 
the horse as perfect as man, and man as perfect as himself? 
And why has he not placed his creatures in a world where 
neither accident nor evil could reach them ? Why has he given 
us bones which can be broken, joints which can be dislocated, 
and a skin which can be tortured by a bramble? Nothing can 
be more perfectly childish — nothing more surely indicative of 
superficial thinking — than these appeals to particular instances. 
The attempt of a sailor, in a storm, to knock down the wind 
with a hand- spike, would not be one whit less Quixotic than the 
endeavour of the purists to purge society of its so-called evils. 

The outcry about intellect and mind has caused mankind to 
mistake, first the nature of man, and next the nature of the 
sources from which his happiness is to be derived. It has 
taught him to scorn his true nature and to aspire to a false one 
— and, taking the false nature for granted without inquiry, it is 
a necessary consequence that he should seek happiness also 
from false sources. Thus he rejects the happiness, with scorn, 
which is within his reach, and hunts after it in quarters in which 
it is unattainable. And the painful longing which prompts his 
search, doomed to perpetual disappointment, is all that he gets 
in exchange for that contentment and real fruition, which he will 
not accept, because it must be enjoyed in common with the brute. 



196 INTELLECT. 

Educated men have, like opium-eaters, created for themselves 
a new want, the gratification of which affords them pleasure. 
And those who would thrust a large share of education upon the 
working masses, with the view of affording them this gratifica- 
tion, cannot do so without first creating the want ; and they 
seem to forget that, while it is easy to create the want, it is, in 
an overwhelming majority of instances, and from the very nature 
of things, manifestly impossible to be gratified. 

It is easy to make the people opium-eaters, but it is impossi- 
ble to furnish a thousandth part of them with the means of 
procuring the opium. And it is equally impossible to prevent 
those who cannot procure opium, from supplying their wants, 
at a cheaper rate, with drugs of a more exciting, but still more 
poisonous character. The inability to gratify it, however, cannot 
destroy the want when once created, but, on the contrary, only 
makes it more eager and importunate; nor will it cause the 
cessation of the efforts to gratify it. These will still be 
unceasingly made ; and as they cannot be made in the right 
direction — since working men cannot devote any efficient portion 
of time to study — they will be made in the wrong direction. 

Taught to believe their condition not a natural and inevitable 
one — trained to feel dissatisfied with things as they are — pro- 
voked to reason about things as they fancy they should be — 
without the leisure, or the knowledge, or the habits, necessary 
to enable them to reason correctly — they wander in a maze of 
error with regard to those things concerning which, even if they 
did possess both the necessary leisure, knowledge, and habits, 
they could not, even then, think otherwise than unsoundly. 
For no man can argue justly where his own interests, feelings, 
prejudices, and passions, are immediately and deeply concerned. 
No man can reason competently and soundly concerning any 
so-called evil, unless he be himself placed beyond the reach of 
its influence. 

Hence arises their perpetual desire for political changes, 
resulting from a perpetual hope of bettering their condition. 

And because this restless desire of change cannot be complied 
with without subverting the whole fabric of society, there is 
engendered in the hearts of the people a steady hostility towards 



INTELLECT. 197 

those in power; and their feelings are eternally at war with 
those who are placed in authority over them. 

The man who performs the duties of a footman to his master's 
daughter may be as happy as a king. But only let some one 
hint to him that his young and lovely mistress has shown 
symptoms of attachment towards him — let him only be made to 
believe that, under more favourable circumstances, he would 
have had as fair a chance as others of winning her affections — 
and he instantly fancies himself deeply in love — conceives the 
most implacable hatred towards those whose opportunities and 
advantages are better and more frequent than his own— curses 
with bitter imprecations his menial condition — and ends perhaps 
by cutting either his own throat, or the throat of some fancied 
and unconscious rival. 

Hence those heart-burnings and repinings, those envious 
jealousies towards the upper classes, the watchfulness with 
which they regard their doings, and the eagerness with which 
they seize on any error in their conduct, and the triumph with 
which they hold it up to scorn and ridicule. They feel that 
they are unhappy, and they do not know why. They see the 
upper classes in the enjoyment of certain refined luxuries, and 
they conclude they are happier than themselves. But this is 
not true. Their pleasures are of a different kind, and derived 
from different sources. But this is all. And what they gain in 
number, they assuredly lose in intensity. While they have 
multiplied sources of misery wholly unknown to the well-fed 
working man; and while almost every additional enjoyment is 
counterbalanced by some corresponding annoyance. 

But because the wealthy are also generally educated, it is to 
this latter circumstance that the working man attributes the 
wealthy man's supposed greater enjoyment. We do not envy 
them their wealth, say they — wealth cannot confer happiness — 
but we are men like themselves — we are not brute-beasts — 
God has conferred upon the poor man a mind — an intellect — as 
well as upon the rich — and we have an equal right to all the 
enjoyments which the possession of this mind puts within our 
power. God has given it to rich and poor in equal perfection, 
as a source of enjoyment peculiar to man, and it is the duty of 



198 INTELLECT. 

our governors to take care that we have the means of obtaining 
it ; and that this most precious of all God's gifts be not given 
in vain. In their hearts they accuse those who think differently 
on this subject of a desire to defraud them of a gift, which, in 
their view, takes the shape of a natural right. They accuse 
them of a desire to keep this glorious endowment — this dis- 
tinctive characteristic of man — this mind — all to themselves; 
and to revel in its enjoyment as in something too rich, and 
magnificent, and divine, to be permitted to the multitude. 
They accuse them of a wish to degrade the working classes to 
an equality with the brute, by withholding from them the means 
of cultivating that which God has given them for the express 
purpose of distinguishing them from the brute. Mistaken 
reasoners ! As if the faculty of speech, and the superior 
knowledge directly consequent upon it, without cultivation, 
was not a sufficient distinction for all the purposes of happi- 
ness. Bat it is pride — a false pride which has been awakened 
in them by the outcry about intellect — it is an unnatural pride, 
and not a natural desire of happiness, which lies at the root of 
all their reasonings, and which will not let them see that 
happiness is not the less desirable because it is derived from 
sources common to other animals ; nor one jot the more so 
when it happens to flow from fountains which to them are 
fountains sealed. 

The people were happy enough until they were taught to chew 
opium; and, through this exciting medium, to acquire wild 
imaginings — airy visions — delusive dreams — beautiful in pros- 
pective — but not less unattainable than unsubstantial. The* 
perpetual obtrusion of these dreamy hallucinations — these win- 
ning, and wooing, and beckoning phantasms— these cheating 
ghosts of impossible things- — have produced the effect which 
might have been foreseen — that of disgusting the people with 
the sober realities of their natural and inevitable lot. The 
people, I say, were happy enough. But they were told that 
there was a fair vestal of unearthly loveliness, called intellect, 
whose young-eyed beauty, like Endymion's, could never fade — 
whose charms transported the beholder from earth to heaven, 
and whose embrace brought heaven to earth— that this angelic 



INTELLECT. 199 

being only waited to be wooed, and only needed to be wooed in 
order to be won. From that moment they became discontented, 
restless, and unhappy. From that moment they began to con- 
ceive feelings of envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitable- 
ness towards those on whom accident had conferred the right to 
enter, at will, the fane of this fair divinity — to dwell and ponder, 
with a dark and morose thoughtfulness, over their inevitable lot 
— and to curse, in bitterness of spirit, that cruel and supposed 
unjust condition which excluded themselves from worshipping in 
the same temple. 



CHAPTER VII. 



OF MIND. 



I will now endeavour to explain to you what I believe to be 
the true nature of mind, and what the true meaning of the word. 
You know, of course, in what manner Sir Isaac Newton 
accounted for the planetary motions, and that it has scarcely 
ever been disputed since his time, so satisfactory were the 
proofs which he advanced in its favor ? 

B. 

I think I do. I believe he assumed that " every particle of 
matter attracts every other particle in the universe with a force 
proportional to the product of their masses directly, and the 
square of their mutual distance inversely, and is itself attracted 
with an equal force." 

A. 

Yes — and that this is a universal law, called by Newton the 
law of gravitation, no one I believe now ever dreams of doubting. 
I suppose, therefore, if I can adduce precisely the same proofs 



200 MIND. 

in favor of my theory of mind, which Sir I. Newton advanced in 
evidence of the universality of his law of gravitation, you will 
admit that such evidence, as far as it goes, is not without con- 
siderable weight ? 

B. 

As far as it goes — certainly. 

A. 

But if, in addition to this, I can show that the word mind, as 
at present used, is an unintelligible word — that it has no power 
of communicating either thoughts, ideas, sensations, or know- 
ledge, or whatever else you may please to call that which it is 
the office of words to communicate — if I can do this, I suppose 
you will allow some weight also even to this species of proof ? 

B. 

Some weight certainly, although this will be but proof 
negative. 

A. 

Proof negative with regard to the present use of the word 
mind, and therefore proof presumptive with regard to the mode 
in which I am about to submit that it ought to be used. But 
if, besides this, I can also prove that, by giving to this word 
mind the meaning which I propose to give it, this otherwise un- 
intelligible word becomes instantly plain and intelligible — so 
plain that the most ignorant ploughman can use it, and converse 
about it, and reason upon it, as intelligibly and sensibly as he 
can about any one thing on his native farm — if all that has 
been hitherto mysterious and inexplicable with regard to mind, 
can, by giving the word the meaning I propose, be made at once 
simple and easily comprehensible — if, I say, I can do this — 

B. 

If you can really do this, then I think it cannot be denied that 
you will have accumulated a weight of evidence which it will be 
exceedingly difficult to resist. 

A. 

But if, moreover, I can also show that the etymological meaning 
of the word — the meaning stamped upon it by its very nature and 
formation — the meaning for the conveyance of which the word 
was expressly invented, and formerly used — is the very meaning 



MIND. 201 

which I now propose (not to give it) but only to restore to it — 
if, I say, I can do this, then I think I may fairly claim the credit 
of having set at rest for ever those multiplied metaphysical 
bickerings and disputatious animosities, concerning this word 
mind, which have vexed the world so long. 

B. 

If you can perform as liberally as you promise, I honestly 
think you will deserve it. Whether you will obtain it, is another 
matter. 

A. 

I shall first prove that the word mind, as at present used, is 
an unintelligible word. 

It is admitted on all hands that the purpose of words is to 
communicate our thoughts — that is, to make one and the same 
thought at the same time common to both the speaker and 
hearer — to excite in the mind of the hearer the same thought, 
idea, or sensation, which is in the mind of the speaker. And if 
a word cannot do this, it is an unintelligible word. 

B. 

That is unquestionably the purpose of words. And any 
word which is destitute of the power of fulfilling this office is 
manifestly an unintelligible word. 

A. 

You will also admit that the mere enunciation of a word can- 
not put any sensation or idea into the mind of another, if it so 
happen that the particular idea or sensation, intended by that 
word, be not already there. In short, if a man do not know the 
meaning of a word, the sound of the word itself cannot tell him. 

B. 

Clearly not. 

A. 

If, then, I declare to you that there is not in me any idea, or 
sensation, or notion, answering to any particular word which I 
hear you use, what course will you pursue in order to put the 
idea in question into me ? 

B. 

If it be not there already, there is certainly no possible way of 
putting it there, excepting that of submitting the object (or some 



20& MIND. 

similar object) of which the word is the sign, to one or other of 
your senses. 

A. 

Just so. Now I declare — not jestingly nor captiously, but 
with perfect sincerity — that there is in me no idea or sensation 
which is represented by the word mind. I say it is not there, 
and I desire you to put it there. For while the word remains to 
me unconnected with any idea — so long as there is in me no 
idea or sensation represented by the word — the word must be to 
me no more than the sound of a child's rattle- — wholly unin- 
telligible. Once more, then, I desire you to put into me a cer- 
tain idea which is not in me, but which is in you, and which you 
call by the name of mind, in order that, when you use the word 
mind, that word may be to me intelligible — in order that when 
you talk about mind, I may know what that is you are talking 
about. For unless I know what you are talking about — cer- 
tainly you must be talking, as far as I am concerned, unin- 
telligibly. 

B. 

If the idea be not already in you, there is certainly no 
conceivable means of putting it into you, since it is not the sign 
of any object cognizable by the senses. 

A. 

To me therefore the word must necessarily be unintelligible. 
But let us suppose, for a moment, that there is in me an idea 
to which I have given the name of mind. How am I to know 
that the idea or sensation which I call mind, is the same as that 
which you call mind ? If the idea in question were the sign of 
some sensible object, I might point to that object and say : 
fi that is the prototype of my idea -" and, if it were also the 
prototype of your idea, you would say : " it is also the prototype 
of my idea •" and we should then know, from this reference to a 
common standard, that our ideas were alike. But where shall 
we find a common standard to which we can refer, in order to 
ascertain whether our two ideas of mind are the same or 
different ? There is manifestly none. We may each, therefore, 
have an idea known to ourselves by the name of mind, and yet 
those two ideas may be as different as light from darkness. 



MIND. 203 

How then can we two use the word mind intelligibly ? Suppose 
a musical composer to have composed a new song — and suppose 
another musical composer also to have composed a new song. 
Suppose these two gentlemen, being friends, mention the fact to 
each other, but without singing or playing either of the songs 
each to the other. But suppose one tells the other that he has 
given to his song a particular name; and suppose the other, 
from caprice or otherwise, choose to call his own song by the 
same name. These two gentlemen will now have in them, each 
a particular group of musical ideas or sensations, each totally 
different from the other, as it may be ; or, for anything they 
know to the contrary, they may be both exactly alike. But 
they are both called by the same name. Now, I say, is it 
possible for these two composers to converse intelligibly together 
about the character and quality and merits of their two songs, 
by means of the name by which they have mutually agreed to 
designate these songs ? They both know the name of the two 
songs. There is but one name for both. Now I ask you 
whether this name, when used by one, can by possibility be 
understood by the other ? Whether it can by possibility 
convey from one to the other any knowledge whatever. Suppose 
the name to be Aria. Suppose the one says to the other : " how 
do you like my new Aria V I ask you again : " is this an 
intelligible question V If you answer hastily, you may perhaps 
observe that the word Aria, like the word tree, would still have 
power to excite in the mind of the hearer certain general ideas — 
that it would cause to pass through his mind a vast number of 
musical remembrances. Perhaps it would. But in order that 
a word may be intelligible, it is not sufficient that it brings into 
the mind sensations. It must have power to bring into the 
mind one particular sensation (or group) in preference to all 
others — and that one must be the same as that existing in the 
mind of the speaker at the time of his speaking. The office of 
words is not to convey ideas or thoughts— they have no such 
power — nor simply to excite ideas or thoughts — but to com- 
municate them — that is, to render common to two persons or 
more, one and the same thought, at one and the same instant of 
time. Pray remember the meaning of this word communicate—* 



204 MIND. 

it signifies— not to convey — but to make common to two or more 
persons one and the same thought, at one and the same time. A 
word which cannot do this, is clearly an unintelligible word — a 
word which is (if I may coin an expression) not understandable. 
It is thus with mind. There is in you an idea, you say, which 
you call mind ; and we are supposing, for the sake of argument, 
that there is also in me an idea also called mind. But as there 
is no common prototype to which we can both refer, and by the 
help of which we can each let the other know what his idea is 
like — each must for ever remain ignorant of the other's idea. 
And thus we two, even supposing I have in me (which I 
certainly have not) an idea represented by the word mind, can 
no more converse intelligibly about mind, than the two musical 
composers could about the songs which each had privately 
composed, each being ignorant of the other's song — that is, 
having never heard it. Thus if twenty men converse about 
mind, and each of the twenty ask, in turn, of his neighbour, 
what he means by the word mind, there is not one of the whole 
twenty that can answer the question. They may ring the 
changes, it is true, upon the various different names which mind 
has received — they may call it sometimes the thinking principle, 
sometimes the rational faculty, sometimes the understanding, 
sometimes one thing, sometimes another. But surely, surely, 
nothing in the world can be clearer, than that multiplying the 
names of a thing can throw no possible light upon the nature of 
the thing itself ! You might as well attempt " to discourse into 
a blind man," as Locke says, " ideas of colours." Suppose I say 
to you : " Mr. B< — — , I have just returned from a most inter- 
esting visit. I have been to visit the celebrated blynam. 

B. 

Blynam ! what's that ? 

A. 

Ah- — that's the question. I cannot make you understand 
the nature of the blynam, because it is not cognizable by any of 
the senses of man — neither can I describe it, for it has no 
similitude under the sun. It is, however, that which some call 
the alteron, and some the mallityptis, and besides these it has a 
great variety of other names. But, in fact, it is that power, or 



MIND. 205 

principle, or immaterial agent, by which the operation of blynam- 
ming is performed. 

May I ask you whether I have succeeded in giving you any 
idea of the blynam ? 

B. 

Certainly not. 

A. 

And unless I can submit the blynam to one or more of your 
senses, or find out something which resembles it, and which I 
can submit to your senses, must not this word blynam remain 
for ever to you a perfectly unintelligible word, even supposing 
that there really were in me a bona fide well-defined idea 
represented by that word ? And must not this be the case, let 
me multiply its name as often as I will ? 

Since then the word mind has no power to excite in the 
hearer the same idea which it represents in the speaker — since, 
if it do excite any idea at all, no man can say that it is the right 
idea — that is, the same idea intended by the speaker — it is 
manifestly certain that it is incapable of fulfilling the office of a 
word — that it has no power to communicate ideas or thoughts — 
and is, therefore, an unintelligible sound. 

Let us hear what my Lord Brougham has to say on this 
subject. In page 238 of his notes to his " Discourse of Natural 
Theology," he says : " from certain ideas in our minds, produced 
no doubt by, and connected with, our bodily senses, but 
independent of and separate from them, we draw certain 
conclusions by reasoning, and those conclusions are in favor of 
the existence of something other than our sensations and our 
reasonings, and other than that which experiences the sensations 
and makes the reasonings — passive in the one case — active in the 
Other. That something is what we call mind." Here you see 
my Lord Brougham expressly declares that the mind is not that 
which reasons , but other than that which "makes the reasonings." 
For I suppose no one will deny that " to reason" and to " make 
reasonings" are one and the same thing. But in the very third 
page following he expressly declares that it is the mind which 
reasons. Into such gross and barefaced absurdities are men 
betrayed — no matter how clever, how learned— when they use 



206 MIND. 

words which are not the representatives of ideas, and whose 
proper use and office they do not understand. 

Now hear what he says almost in the same breath with the 
sentence above quoted. In page 241 he says : " nor can we, 
even in any one instance, draw the inference of the existence of 
matter, without at the same time exhibiting a proof of the 
existence of mind; for we are, by the supposition, reasoning, 
inferring, drawing a conclusion, forming a belief; therefore 
there exists somebody, or something, to reason, to infer, to 
conclude, to believe ; that is, we- — not any fraction of matter, 
but a reasoning, inferring, believing being — in other words, a 
mind." Mirabaud, or whoever the author was who wrote the 
Systeme de la Nature, could not have contradicted my Lord 
Brougham more roundly and flatly than my Lord Brougham 
has contradicted himself. 

But I think I can show you demonstrably that the word mind 
is not an intelligible word. I will endeavour to do this by the 
help of one of these passages of Lord Brougham's, by striking 
out the word mind and substituting in its place a mere alge- 
braical sign. And then I will appeal to you — I will appeal to 
any unprejudiced man in the kingdom — and I will ask him to 
say honestly whether the passage does not really and in truth 
convey precisely the same meaning — the same quantity of in- 
formation — without the word mind, and with the algebraical 
sign, as it does just as it stands in my Lord Brougham's book. 
In both the above passages, Lord Brougham has said that the 
word mind stands for something — something which we call mind. 
Now, I ask you whether this word something be an intelligible 
term. Observe, I do not ask you whether it performs any use- 
ful office or not — for it does — -a very useful one indeed — but I 
ask you whether it has any power to communicate any idea or 
sensation ? Whether it conveys any knowledge ? If I say to 
you : " I am going to York to buy" — and there stop — do I not 
convey to you every jot as much information as though I were to 
say : " I am going to York to buy something ?" Is it not clear 
that this word something is merely the sign of an unknown 
object, which unknovm object might be just as well represented, 
as an algebraist would certainly represent it, by the letter x, or 



MIND. 207 

y, or z ? "I am going to York to buy what I shall repre- 
sent for the present by the letter x. When I have bought this 
x and brought it to town, then I shall send for my friends and 
show them my purchase." Now I say it is a matter of not the 
slightest moment, whether in this instance I use the letter x or 
the word something, seeing that neither one nor the other con- 
veys any, the slightest portion of knowledge or information — 
neither being the sign of any particular idea or sensation — but 
both being merely signs of some unknown object. But if I 
strike out of the sentence, "I am going to York to buy some- 
thing," any word which is the sign of a particular idea or sen- 
sation, and which does convey some knowledge or information — - 
if, for instance, I strike out the word " York," and substitute the 
letter x — then you will find instantly that the sentence so 
altered does not convey so much information as before. The 
word York is intelligible — conveys information. The letter x is 
an unintelligible (though useful and necessary) sign, conveying 
no information of any kind. The letter x, therefore, and the 
word York, cannot be substituted for each other without altering 
the sense. In the passage quoted from Lord Brougham, he 
himself tells us, the word mind stands for something — for some- 
thing which performs such and such actions. Now, I say, that 
since (as has been seen) the letter x can perform the office of the 
word something, and since the word something can perform 
the office of the word mind, the letter x can also be sub- 
stituted for the word mind without detriment to the sense, or 
knowledge, or information conveyed by the passage : as thus. 
"Nor can we even draw the inference in any one instance of the 
existence of matter, without at the same time exhibiting a proof 
of the existence of (something else — which something else we 
will represent by) the letter x ; for we are, by the supposition, 
reasoning, inferring, drawing a conclusion, forming a belief; 
therefore there exists somebody or something, to reason, to infer, 
to conclude, to believe ; that is, we — not any fraction of matter, 
but a reasoning, inferring, believing being — in other words, 
(that something else which we have before represented by) 
the letter x." Both the letter x and the word mind are signs 
of an unknown something which is said by Lord Brougham, in 



208 MIND. 

p. 241, to reason, and in p. 238, not to reason — and I ask yon 
how the sign of an unknown something can by any conceivable 
possibility be an intelligible, that is, an understandable, that is, 
a knowable sign? The thing is too gross for an instant's doubt 
■ — it cannot be denied with any, the slightest conceivable show 
of reason — that the word mind is nothing more than the sign 
of an unknown something — that is, in other words which are 
precisely equivalent, the sign of nobody knows what. And I 
repeat, that a word which is the sign of nobody knows what, is, 
and must be, to all intents and purposes, broadly and manifestly, 
an unintelligible word. 

B. 

But you will please to remember that Lord Brougham and 
those who advocate the separate existence of mind as a distinct 
being, a performing agent, whole in itself and entire, represent 
the word mind, not merely as the sign of something, but of that 
particular individual something which performs the operation of 
thinking. 

A. 

I know they do — and there would be some weight in your 
objection (although even then extremely little) if these gentle- 
men would also tell us what thinking is— I say, there would be 
some little force in your objection if the word think were not to 
the full, as at present used, as completely unintelligible as the 
word mind. But while this pretended operation of thinking 
remains as profound a mystery, as does that pretended existence 
called mind, surely it is sufficiently clear that the one cannot be 
explained by reference to the other. To do this, is to do what I 
have done before, for the purpose of showing you the folly of 
doing it — viz. to attempt to explain to you the nature of the 
blynam by telling you that it is that particular individual some- 
thing which performs the operation of blynamming. But I shall 
now soon arrive at this word think, when I shall explain to you 
what the word really means, and also wherein this supposed 
operation of thinking consists. The explanation of this word 
think, and of the supposed operation of thinking, as well as the 
restoration of the true meanings to the words, to be, reason, fyc., 
will all of them form so many additional and very strong col- 



MIND. 209 

lateral arguments in favor of my theory of mind. This by the 
way. 

But let us suppose that the operation (as it is called) of think- 
ing were really a perfectly intelligible operation — as comprehensi- 
ble and recognisable as that operation which is performed when a 
stone falls to the ground. I say I will give you the benefit of 
this supposition wholly gratuitous as it is — and still I will show 
you that, like most other gratuities, it is of little value to you — 
nay, of none at all. 

Mind, then, is that particular something which performs the 
well-understood operation of thinking — just as gravitation is 
that particular something which performs the operation of draw- 
ing a stone towards the centre of the earth. But I affirm that 
this word gravitation, when standing by itself — and you will 
please to remember that we are all along talking of the mind as 
it stands by itself, the sign of some one unique and independent 
being — I say, this word gravitation, when standing by itself, and 
used without reference to its etymological meaning, as the word 
mind is, is also a perfectly unintelligible word— a word wholly 
incapable of conveying any information, or of communicating 
any idea or sensation — in short, that this word also, when used 
by itself, like the word mind, is but an algebraical sign, used by 
philosophers in their various processes of reasoning, for the sake 
of convenience, and that its place might just as well be supplied 
by the algebraical signs of unknown things, x, y, z, — that is, 
by any one of them. The philosopher, while reasoning concern- 
ing the planetary motions, the velocities of falling bodies, &c, 
would have frequent occasion to mention the fact that u every 
particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle 
with a force proportional, Sec. &c." But this would be ex- 
tremely troublesome, and even difficult to introduce intelligibly. 
He adopts a sign, therefore, and makes that sign stand, in his 
own mind, for the whole sentence of: "the power by which every 
particle of matter in the universe attracts, &c." — that sign is 
the word gravitation. Standing, therefore, for all the words in 
that sentence, it has an intelligible meaning; for it means all 
that is meant by that whole sentence — and so would the letter 
x or y, or any other arbitrary mark or letter used as a kind of 



210 MIND. 

short-hand sign for convenience and dispatch in reasoning, pre- 
cisely as the algebraist uses his signs for unknown quantities. 
But standing by itself, as the representative of that particular 
power which attracts one body toward another, it is utterly 
unintelligible, that is, wholly incapable of communicating ideas, 
thoughts, sensations, or knowledge ; just as much so as is the 
algebraical sign x, or y, or z, when used in algebraical reason- 
ings — a sign of an unknown something — that is, nobody knows 
what. 

The mind, says Lord Brougham, is the name which we give 
to that something which performs the operation of reasoning and 
concluding. And I say that gravitation is the name which we 
give to that something which performs the operation of pulling 
stones and other bodies towards the centre of the earth. But 
what then ? Are we thence to conclude that that something 
which performs this operation, and which we call gravitation, is 
a veritable, separate, independent being, distinct from the earth, 
and only dwelling in the earth ? A living and active agent con- 
stantly engaged in the act of pulling ? If so, there must exist 
such a being, not only in the centre of the earth, but in the 
centre of every individual atom composing the earth ! For 
every atom is attracted, that is, pulled, by every other atom, 
not only of the earth, but of the universe ! Surely no one will 
make such an assertion as this ! and yet there is precisely the 
same reason for asserting this, as there is for asserting mind to 
be a separate, independent, active being. It is asserted that 
thinking is an operation, and that, therefore, there must be, as 
Lord Brougham says, ' ' somebody or something" to perform this 
operation. Granted. But then, so also is the attracting, that 
is, pulling of a stone towards the centre of the earth, an opera- 
tion ; and, therefore, by the same kind of reasoning, there must 
be a " somebody or something" to perform this operation. And 
if it be necessary to suppose that this " somebody or something" 
be a living, independent, self-existent, active being, in the one 
case, there is clearly an equal necessity for believing it to be so 
in the other. That mass of matter called a man, cannot, 
according to Lord Brougham, perform the operation of thinking 
—there must be "somebody or something" else to perform that 



MIND. 211 

operation — which, he says, is called mind, or the thinking 
faculty or power. Very well. And by a parity of reasoning, 
so neither can that mass of matter called the earth perform the 
operation of pulling or attracting — there must, therefore, be 
" somebody or something" else to perform that operation — which 
philosophers call gravitation, or the gravitating faculty, power, 
force, or law. But what conceivable reason is there, in the one 
case, to suppose this power to be an independent, separate, living, 
and acting being, more than in the other ? For the operation of 
pulling a heavy body downwards towards the centre of the 
earth, is surely as clearly and manifestly a bona fide operation, 
requiring an active agent, as is the pretended operation of 
thinking ! But enough of this. There is evidently no more 
reason for supposing it in the one case than in the other. 

But you say the word mind is so far a particular term that it 
represents one particular power or faculty and no other. Very 
well — of all the powers that be it represents only one. But, 
with regard to this one, does it give any information ? any know- 
ledge ? Does it inform us what it is ? or what it is like ? Does 
it make this one power intelligible to us ? comprehensible by 
us ? The effects of this one power we already know — but does 
it enable us to understand the nature of the power itself ? Not 
in the slightest degree. It tells us what power it is not — that 
it is not the power which causes matter to gravitate towards 
matter — not the power which causes iron to attract the lightning 
— it tells us, I say, what power it is not — but does it tell us 
anything of its own nature ? No. It gives us, when standing 
alone, no information whatever, and is wholly an unintelligible 
word — like the word gravitation. 

But pray do not misunderstand me. The word gravitation is 
only an unintelligible word, when used merely as an abbreviated 
sign, by philosophers, to represent an unknown power, as 
algebraists use the letters x, y, z, as the signs of unknown 
quantities. It is only, then, an unintelligible word when used, 
like the word mind, without any reference to its etymological 
meaning. But it has, like every other word, a very good and 
sufficient etymological meaning of its own, and so has the word 
mind. The only difference between the uses of the two words 



212 MIND. 

is this. The etymological meaning of the word gravitation (the 
word being of very recent introduction) has not been lost sight 
of. And therefore the word is only used as a mere unintelligible 
(though extremely useful) ratiocinative sign sometimes. Whereas 
the etymological meaning of the word mind has been lost sight 
of, and is, therefore, used as an unintelligible sign always. 

We have only to restore its etymological meaning, and there 
will be no more difficulty about mind than there is about 
gravitation. Nay, not so much. For I herewith promise you, 
without quibble or prevarication, or play upon terms, to enable 
you to draw mind upon paper, or rather its exact representation 
— at least, as exact as any artist can draw a tree, or a man, or 
windmill. 

I have said that the word mind is not the less unintelligible 
because it is said to be the name of only one individual 
particular power or faculty, and no other. I must illustrate this. 

The word thing, you must admit, is the name of every single 
atom of matter composing the universe — and also of every 
conceivable combination of those atoms. And if any one atom 
could be divided into as many millions of parts as there are 
millions of single atoms contained in the universe, this word 
thing would still be the name of every one of those parts. If, 
then, I say I have in my mind a thought, or idea, or sensation, 
which is, at present, proper, private, and peculiar to me, but 
which I desire to make common to us both— that is, to com- 
municate — and if, with the view of doing so, I call it a thing — 
then every atom in the universe, separate or combined, must 
pass through your mind, supposing I meant some visible object, 
before you can be sure that the thing present at that moment to 
my mind, has been present to yours — and when all this has 
been done, you are not one jot wiser than you were before, for 
want of knowing which of them all I intended the word thing to 
represent. The word thing, therefore, so used, is unintelligible, 
is it not ? 

B. 

Perfectly so. 

A. 

But I now inform you that the thing I intended is an animal. 



MIND. 213 

I have now told you what that thing is not— that it is no 
portion, nor any combination of unorganized matter. But 
although you now know what it is not, you know no more what 
it is than you did before. When every conceivable form of 
organized matter has passed through your mind, you are still 
ignorant of my meaning for want of knowing which of them all 
I intended — and this word animal, when so used, is as unin- 
telligible as the word thing — as I think you will find by and 
bye, when I call it by an intelligible name, which I shall do 
presently— and then you will observe the very different effect 
produced on your mind by a really intelligible word, from that 
which is produced by these general terms, when only used as 
signs for convenience of speech — pegs, as it were, whereon to 
hang conversation. Not but what they are all the signs of 
sensations, but then they are incapable of communicating sensa- 
tions. But the word mind, since its etymological meaning has 
been forgotten, is the sign of no sensation or idea whatever. 

But to proceed — I now say that the animal I have in my 
mind is — a quadruped. Here again I have added to the 
amount of those things which it is not, but you are still as 
ignorant as before as to the proper idea — you know it has four 
legs indeed — but whether they be the legs of an elephant or a 
water-rat you cannot tell — and therefore you cannot converse 
with me intelligibly about my idea — therefore the word still 
remains an unintelligible word to you. 

But I now add that it is a dog which I have in my mind. 
But dogs are of almost infinite variety, whereas the idea which 
I have had in my mind all this time is one and the same — a 
dog of a definite size and colour, and no other. The word is 
still to you unintelligible. For the word dog, as here used, and 
as they use the word mind, does not signify any and every dog, 
but only that particular dog, whose idea is at this moment in 
my memory. 

I now inform you that it is one of Mr. W/s hounds, every one 
of which, I know, you are intimately acquainted with individually 
and by name. But there are fifty hounds in Mr. W/s pack ; 
and although the whole of these are now fluttering through your 
mind, you cannot point to any one of them and say : " that is 



214 MIND. 

the dog you mean." Even yet, therefore, the word dog is an 
unintelligible word, and will not enable you to converse with 
me intelligibly about that particular dog whose idea is in my 
mind. 

But I will now use an intelligible word. The dog I mean is 
Mr. W/s old hound — -Bingwood ! 

B. 

My old friend Bingwood — poor fellow ! he has lately lost an 
eye. 

A. 

That observation proves how instantly and thoroughly and 
easily you understood me, the moment I used an intelligible 
word — the moment I substituted the sign of a known something 
for the sign of an unknown something — which must always be 
done before they can become intelligible words. But you could 
never have known I was thinking of a one-eyed dog had I not 
at last substituted a particular term for the general terms — a 
sign of a known quantity instead of the signs of an unknown 
quantity — in a word, an intelligible term in place of an unin- 
telligible one. 

But of all the powers that be, the word mind, you say, only 
represents that particular one which performs the operation of 
thinking. True — but so the word quadruped, as used above, 
only represented, out of all the various forms of living matter, 
that one particular kind which is necessary to perform the 
operation of running on all-fours. And yet you found the term 
an unintelligible one. 

But the word mind, as used by Locke, Lord Brougham, and 
almost everybody else, is in a much worse predicament than 
these general terms. For these are all the signs of sensations, 
although not of particular sensations. And it frequently hap- 
pens, in talking or writing, that these general terms are all that 
are required, because the sense of what is said or written, does 
not depend upon the fact of one and the same idea being present 
in the mind of him who writes and him who reads ; but is 
sufficiently intelligible, provided only there be present to the 
minds of both an idea belonging to one and the same class. 
This is the case when we are talking of some property, or other 



MIND. 215 

accident, which is common to all the individuals of one class. 
In this case it does not signify which individual of the class is 
selected,, by each person, as the object of contemplation while 
conveying, since all the individuals of that class are alike, with 
regard to that particular property which is the subject of 
conversation. 

Thus, in speaking of the habits and manners of the honey- 
bee, it is by no means necessary that both speaker and listener 
should have in his mind an idea of one and the same honey-bee. 
It is sufficient that each has in his memory a honey-bee. Why ? 
Because all honey-bees are alike, as far as it regards habits and 
manners — that is, the subject of conversation. 

Thus these general terms — and all general terms which have 
not lost their etymological meaning — that is, their power of 
exciting sensations or ideas- — may frequently supply the place of 
particular names — as when we talk of dogs, horses, trees, things, 
man, &c. &c. And it is absolutely necessary that it should be 
so. For it would be manifestly impossible to give a particular 
name to every particular thing in the universe. 

But the word mind has lost this power of exciting sensations. 
And why ? Because it has lost its etymological meaning — that 
meaning which was stamped upon it at its formation, as upon 
every other word — because the connexion between the word and 
its meaning has been lost sight of — because the reason why that 
particular word, and no other, was selected to serve one par- 
ticular purpose has been overlooked and forgotten — and because, 
therefore, it has acquired an arbitrary meaning, which no word 
can have, and yet remain an intelligible sound. 

Sir I. Newton did not select the word gravitation to be the 
sign of his celebrated law arbitrarily. There was a reason for 
it — which reason is discoverable in the etymology of the word. 
And there was a reason why the word mind was selected, in 
preference to others, to serve the purpose which it was intended 
to serve. That reason is also discoverable in its etymology. 
We have only, then, to refer to the admiral's book and ascertain 
what meaning stands opposite to the word mind there, and that 
will lead us directly to the meaning which it bears in the book 
of nature — that is, in the nature of things. For, let it never be 



£16 MIND. 

forgotten, that the admiral's book is only a faithful transcript of 
the book of nature. Let it never be forgotten that language 
was made for things, and not things for language — that there is 
such a thing as language, because there were first such things as 
things. Let it never for a moment be forgotten that things are 
the substance of which language is the shadow — and that a word 
with an impossible meaning is an impossible word — that is to 
say, an unintelligible sound. 

B. 

" Such things as things !" you will be censured for this 
phrase, I think. 

A. 

Probably — but it will only be by such mere verbal critics as 
the Spectator — men who, like children, being pleased and 
satisfied with the pretty glitter of the tinsel gilding, care little 
for the quality of the gingerbread. 

Having demonstrated that the word mind, like the word 
gravitation, when used without reference to its etymological 
sense, is merely a sign used for the purposes of talking, as the 
algebraists use their letters x, y, z — because we cannot talk about 
effects (which we do know) without also talking about causes, 
(of which we know nothing) without representing these causes 
by some word, sign, or letter — in a word, having shown that 
the word mind, as at present used, is merely the sign of an 
unknown something (which is indeed admitted on all hands)— 
and having shown that the sign of an unknown something — 
that is, the sign of nobody knoivs what — must necessarily be an 
unintelligible word — I now proceed to make it at once intelligible 
by proving that it is the sign— not of an unknown something, but 
of a known something— <-not of a nobody knows what, but of an 
everybody knows what — simply by restoring to it its etymo- 
logical meaning — by restoring to it that meaning which was 
stamped upon it at its formation, and to communicate which 
meaning was the very end and object— the very purpose — for 
which the word was invented. 

I suppose it will not be contended even by my Lord Brougham 
—it will not be contended in this, the year of our Lord 1841, 
by anybody, I should think — that memory also is a " somebody 



MIND. 217 

or something— not any fraction of matter — but a Being inde- 
pendent of and separate from our bodily senses, other than our 
sensations and that which experiences our sensations" — and that 
that " somebody or something is what we call" memory ! I 
take it for granted that no one in this the nineteenth century of 
the christian era, and six-thousandth year of the world's creation, 
will say that " there is an operation called remembering, and 
therefore there must be " somebody or something" to perform that 
operation ! — not any fraction of matter — but a Being inde- 
pendent of, and separate from, our sensations — which a somebody 
or something" we call memory, remembrance, or recollection !" 
I must take it for granted that it will be allowed on all hands 
that memory, remembrance, recollection, (all words having the 
same meaning) are merely collective terms denoting all those 
sensations which we can what we call remember — just as the 
word pack is a collective term, denoting all the fifty-two cards 
which constitute a pack of cards — or all the dogs which con- 
stitute a pack of hounds. And that when we say " such and 
such an event did not happen within my memory, or remem- 
brance, or recollection" — or, " I have no remembrance of it" — 
we mean precisely what he means who says, " such and such a 
card, or dog, is not in my pack — does not make one of my pack. ,y 
We mean that such and such an event or fact does not make one 
of our pack of remembered sensations or ideas. Memory, 
therefore, signifies a pack of remembered sensations or ideas. 
Indeed the Latin word recollection, which we have adopted into 
our language, fully explains, not only its own meaning, but also 
the meaning of the word memory, for which it is used as a 
substitute and equivalent. To recollect signifies to collect, or 
gather together over again — and recollection signifies that 
which has been collected or gathered together over again. 
When a man says : " I have a strong or retentive memory/* 
he merely speaks figuratively. He first poetically embodies 
or personifies his pack of remembered sensations or ideas- 
he endows it, when so personified, with active powers — and then 
speaks of it accordingly. But what he really means is this: 
V155. that his pack of sensations constantly increases — -that 
sensations which have once come into his pack are never after- 
It 



218 MIND. 

wards lost. Nothing can be more frequent than this figurative 
manner of speaking, even with regard to the commonest 
inanimate objects. 

The word gravitation proffers us an instance of this figurative 
manner of speaking. What is it which restrains the moon in 
her orbit round the earth ? Gravitation. What is it which 
bridles and reins in the earth and prevents her from darting 
away into unknown regions ? Gravitation. If a waggon, in its 
passage, break down a bridge, it is because gravitation pulls it 
so violently down towards the river that the bridge has not 
power to resist it. It was gravitation which took such a strong 
and hearty pull at the lord mayor's chandelier, some years ago, 
that it broke the chain, and dashed down the chandelier upon 
the dinner-table. It is gravitation which performs all these 
mighty exploits, and yet no one ever dreams of considering 
gravitation as a separate, veritable, active, Being — an independent 
spirit apart from matter ! No — because the Latin derivation of 
the word — its etymological meaning — is so broadly manifest to 
those who use it, that, although they constantly employ it in this 
figurative manner, there is no danger of their falling into so 
silly an error. Yet this is precisely the error into which we 
have fallen with regard to the word mind. We have so long 
and constantly habituated ourselves to embody mind — to per- 
sonify it into a living and moving and performing agent — and 
the Anglo-Saxon language, from which the word is derived, is 
so much less familiar to us than the Latin and Greek — that we 
have come at last entirely to forget that, when we use it in this 
figurative manner, we do but speak poetically — and its derivation 
from a language but little known has favored the error, and 
blinded us to its real meaning, and the true office and purpose 
which it serves in speech. 

The truth is, that memory, remembrance, recollection, and 
mind, are, all four of them, so many different words signifying 
precisely the same thing. The only difference between them 
being that memory, recollection, and remembrance, (as it is 
corruptly written, but rememorance as it ought to be written) are 
three Latin words having one particular signification ; and mind 
is an English word having the same one particular signification. 



MIND, 219 

So that when an Englishman is reading a Latin author, and 
desires to translate him into the English tongue as he goes 
along, if he meet with the word memoria, (that is, memory) the 
only English word by which that word memoria can be rendered 
into English is the word mind. He has no other means of 
doing it, for the plain reason that there is no other English 
word which has the same signification. And if the word mind 
do not signify memory, then there is no word in the English 
language which does. It is quite manifest that he cannot 
render the Latin memoria into English by using the words 
memory, remembrance, or recollection. For this would be no 
translation at all, but a mere substitution of one Latin word for 
another Latin word — memory, remembrance, and recollection 
being, to all intents and purposes, as strictly Latin words as 
memoria — and, when first adopted into the English language, 
equally unintelligible to an Englishman, unless he understood 
the Latin language. 

Now, you know, you and I are two men employed in digging 
for a treasure, which we are to share between us when we have 
found it. And we care about, and are anxious for, but one 
thing only — and that one thing is — -how to find it. Bearing 
this in mind, I ask you confidently whether it be at all con- 
ceivable that the language of any people, however barbarous, 
should be without a word to signify a thing with which every 
one — every child — is so thoroughly intimate — a thing which 
every man, woman, and child, use daily as often or oftener than 
they do their eye-sight — a thing to which every man, woman, 
child, and animal, is every hour, nay, every instant, beholden 
for the preservation of their lives — a thing without which age 
would be no wiser than infancy — a thing to which no man can 
utter half-a-dozen consecutive words without referring — in fact, 
a thing without which no man could utter half-a-dozen con- 
secutive words at all — nor three, nor two — no, nor one — a thing 
without which the senses would be almost useless, and life an 
intolerable misery — and yet a thing, the nature of which every 
plough-boy understands as well as he understands the nature of 
eye-sight — now I ask you — I ask you as a man — solely anxious 
to discover the truth— I ask you as an honest tradesman, who 

R 2 



220 MIND. 

is making out his account against his debtor, the truth — I 
apply to you as to an architect who is requested to state whether 
he does not think that the building would be more secure if 
such or such a piece of timber were removed, and such or such 
substituted in its stead — I say, sir, I ask you whether it be 
possible to conceive that such a thing as that which we call by 
the Latin name of memory should be without a name in any 
language, however barbarous, and yet the same language have a 
name for that unknown, and incomprehensible shadow of a 
shade — that something which no man has seen, felt, or heard — 
which no man even pretends to understand — without which all 
men (aided solely by memory) can perfectly fulfil all the offices 
of life — and of which all that the most learned can say is — that 
it is — something which performs something? For all that has 
yet been said of mind is, that it is that particular something 
which performs the operation of that particular something which 
we call thinking. 

Having premised thus much, I now say that- — as blind (as has 
been clearly shown by Home Tooke) is the past participle of the 
Anglo-Saxon word blinnan, to stop, to close — contracted thus, 
Mined, blin'd, blind — and signifies eyes that are stopped or closed: 
as field, anciently written feld, is the past participle of the verb 
to fell — contracted thus, felled, felVd, feld, afterwards corruptly 
spelled field — and signifies land whereon the trees have been felled: 
as dastard is the past participle of dastrigan, to frighten — and 
signifies one who is frightened : as coward is the past participle of 
the verb to cowre, or to cower — and signifies one who has cower' 'd 
before an enemy: as our pronoun it, spelled by the Anglo-Saxons 
hozt, is the past participle of hcetan, to name — and signifies the 
named: as our pronoun that, spelled by the Anglo-Saxons thcet, is 
the past participle of thean, to take, to assume : as thrift is the past 
participle of the verb to thrive — contracted thus, thrived, thrived, 
thrift : as quilt is the past participle of the verb to quill — con- 
tracted thus, quilled, quilVd, quilt: as gaunt is the past participle 
of the Anglo-Saxon verb gewanian, to grow thin — contracted 
thus, ge-waned, gewan'd, gewant, g'want, gaunt — and signifies 
one who is thin : as draught is the past participle of the verb to 
draugh (now written draw)— contracted thus, draughed, draught 'd, 



MIND. %%\ 

draught — and signifies that which is draughen, draught n, or drawn : 
as craven is the past participle of the verb to crave — and signifies 
one who has craven his life of his antagonist : as dawn is the 
past participle of the Anglo-Saxon dagian, to become light : as 
churn is the past participle of cyran, (c pronounced like k) to 
move backwards and forwards — contracted thus, cyren, cyr'n, 
cyrn, churn — and signifies that which is moved backwards 
and forwards : as scout is the past participle of the Anglo- 
Saxon scitan, to send out — and signifies one who is sent 
out to reconnoitre : as sop, soup, sup, sip, are the past par- 
ticiples of sipan, to sip — and signify that which is sipped: as 
net is the past participle of cnittan, to knit — and signifies that 
which is knitted: as law is the past participle of the Mceso- 
Gothic lagjan, to lay down — and signifies that which is laid 
down : as short is the past participle of the verb to shear — -and 
signifies that which is shear 'd, that is, cut : as long is the past 
participle of the Anglo-Saxon word lengian, to stretch out — and 
signifies that which is stretched out : as town is the past par- 
ticiple of the Anglo-Saxon verb tynan, to enclose, to encompass, 
to shut in — and signifies a number of houses encompassed, shut 
in — as all towns formerly were, by walls and gates : as hoard 
and herd are the past participles of hyrdan, to guard — and sig- 
nify that which is guarded: as knee is the past participle of 
hnigan, to bend — and signifies that which is bent : as wheel is 
the past participle of the Anglo-Saxon willigan, to turn round — 
and signifies that which is turned round: as food is the past par- 
ticiple of fedan, to feed — and signifies that which is fed upon : 
as milk is the past participle of melcan, to milk — and signifies 
that which is milked from the cow : as home is the past participle 
of hozman, to meet together — and signifies the place where all the 
members of a family meet together : as lore is the past participle 
of Iceran, to teach — and signifies that which is taught : as loan 
is the past participle of hloenan, to lend — -and signifies that 
which is lent : as fowl is the past participle, and past tense, of 
fiolgan, to fly — and signifies an animal that flies : as roof is 
the past participle of hrcefnan, to sustain — and signifies that 
which is sustained, or upheld : as woof is the past participle of 
wefan, to weave — and signifies that which is woven: as hand is 



222 MIND. 

the past participle of hentan, to take hold of — and signifies that 
by which anything is taken hold of : as grave is the past participle 
of grafan, to scoop out — and signifies that which is scooped out : 
as hell (which also signifies a grave) is the past participle of 
helan, to cover over — and signifies that which is covered over: 
as heaven is the past participle of the verb to heave — and sig- 
nifies thai which is upheav-ed, upheav-en, or uplifted above us : as 
tale is the past participle of tellan, to tell — and signifies that which 
is told: so mind (formerly written mynd) is the past participle of 
my nan, to remember— and signifies that which is remembered. 

You will recollect that, sometime ago, I told you that what 
are called ideas are, in fact, remembered sensations. Sensations, 
then, are the things which are remembered. And mind signifies 
all the sensations which a man can remember — or, a man's 
whole pack or quantity of remembered sensations. In a word, 
his remembrances, his recollections, his memory — all that he 
can, and whatever he can, remember. 

The Scotch, to the present day, use the verb to mind in the 
identical sense in which we use the verb to remember. In the 
Antiquary, Eddie Ochiltree says : " Praetorian here, Praetorian 
there, I mind the biggin' oV — that is, " I remember the building 

of it." 

The word mind occurs in the Anglo-Saxon language under a 
great variety of forms. But every form of it signifies remem- 
brance. Thus^ — ge-mynd, memory — ge-mindlic, memorable — 
ge-myndlice, by memory — ge-myndig, mindful — myndelic, memo- 
rable — ge-mind, a memorial — ge-mind-blithe, a grateful remem- 
brance — ge-mindig, mindful — gemindiglicnys, remembrance. All 
these are the past participle mynd, or mind, compounded with 
other words: as ge-mynd — ge-mind-lic, — ge-mynd-lice — ge~ 
mynd-ig — mynde-lic — ge-mind — ge-mind-hlithe — ge-mind-ig — 
ge-mm-W-ig-lic-nys. This last is very curious. It is made up 
of no less than six different words. Thus we sometimes say : 
" a never-to-be-forgotten" circumstance. The verb itself, from 
which these past participles are derived, is also as variously 
spelled as the participle, as must ever be the case when there is 
no other guide to spelling, but the sound. Thus we have 
mynd-gian — mind-gism ■ — ■ ge~mynd-gm\\ - — munan — -gemunan — 



MIND. 223 

gemynan — mingian — mynian — mynegian — manian — mcenan 
(diphthong broad, like a in father) — gemonian — the Latin word 
moneo certainly, and the Greek word mnao most probably — but 
they all signify alike, to remember. The root of all is, myn, 
min, mon, man, or, as in the Greek, simply mn. 

Mind, then, is the regular past participle of mynan, to remem- 
ber, and has been regularly contracted into its present mono- 
syllabic form by the same process by which numberless other 
words in our language have also been formed. Thus : 

As odd — is owed, ow ; d, odd : 

As head — is heaved, heaved, head : 

As wild — is willed, wnTd, wild : 

As flood — is flowed, flowed, flood : 

As loud — is lowed, low'd, loud : 

As shred — is shered, shared, shred : 

As sherd — is shered, sher'd, sherd : 

As field — is felled, felFd, field : 

As blind — is blined, bhVd, blind, from blinnan, to stop : 

So mind — is myned, myn'd, mind, from mynan, to remember. 

The past participle mind having been thus converted into a 
noun substantive, the next operation of language, or rather of 
time upon language, was to convert this noun substantive into a 
verb. And this was done, in the usual manner, by the simple 
addition of the prefix to before it. Hence arose the Scotch verb 
to mind — that is, to remember. And hence arose our own 
English verb to re-mind — that is, to put into the mind over again. 
The word memory has undergone the same process — for, to 
remember is only a corrupt spelling of to re-memory — that is, to 
put into the memory over again. 

All this I suppose to be perfectly clear. At least, it cannot 
be denied by any one who has paid any attention to the 
structure of our mother tongue. But he who has admitted 
Home Tooke's system of language can no more deny it, than 
he who has admitted the first book of Euclid can deny the 
second — or than he who admits that two and two are four, can 
deny that four and four are eight. For he who admits the 
premises can, by no possible means, deny the legitimate con- 
sequences, be they what they will, without proclaiming himself 
— no matter what. 



224 MIND. 

Now, then, I have shown, first, that the word mind, as at 
present used, is an unintelligible word — that is to say, that it 
has no power of communicating ideas, any more than the 
algebraical signs x, y, z. 

Secondly, that by giving to the word mind the meaning of 
the word memory, it becomes at once intelligible — intelligible to 
every man in the empire, however uneducated. For there is no 
one who does not understand the nature of memory, as well as 
he understands the nature of smelling, hearing, tasting, &c. I 
beg of you to observe that I say as well — not better. 

Thirdly, I have shown that this meaning is precisely that 
particular meaning which the etymology of the word proves to 
be inherent in the ivord — that this is precisely the meaning for 
the conveyance of which the word was purposely invented and 
contrived. 

But I also promised that I would exhibit the same species of 
proof in favor of my doctrines concerning mind, which Sir I. 
Newton exhibited in proof of his theory with regard to the 
planetary motions, and which have never since been doubted. 

I cannot, however, do this fully, until I have explained to you 
the meaning of the words be and think. 

B. 

The word mind, then, according to you, signifies what we call 
recollections — -those pictures of things which remain in us, after 
the realities have ceased to impress our organs — those sem- 
blances which we call dreams — those sensations, whatever they 
are, to which we allude, when we say we can see things with 
our mind's eye — in a word, ideas of things. 

A. 

I care not what you call them, nor how often you ring the 
changes upon their name. Every man is conscious of them, 
and no man can live without them, and I am satisfied to call 
them remembered sensations, or sensations which I can remem- 
ber — a phraseology which I presume every clown can perfectly 
understand. 

B. 

I shall not, however, feel satisfied unless you also explain to 
me the meaning of the words sensation and remember. Espe- 
cially I should be glad to hear what sensation is. 



MIND. 225 

A. 

I shall not shrink from the task. 

B. 

I confess too that I should like to have some other authority 
than your own for the very high estimation in which you hold 
Home Tooke's system of language. 

A. 

Take one then from the pen of one of the great men of your 
own political sect — the pen of Lord Brougham. 

" But much and justly as he (Home Tooke) was distinguished 
in his own time, both among popular leaders, and as a martyr 
for popular principles, it is as a philosophical grammarian that 
his name will reach the most distant ages. To this character 
his pretensions were of the highest class. Acumen not to be 
surpassed, learning quite adequate to the occasions, a strong 
predilection for the pursuit, qualified him to take the first place, 
and to leave the science, (scanty when his inquiries began,) 
enlarged and enriched by his discoveries; for discoveries 
he made, as incontestably as ever did the follower of phy- 
sical science, by the cognate methods of inductive investi- 
gation. 

"The principle upon which his system is founded excels in 
simplicity, and is eminently natural and reasonable. As all our 
knowledge relates primarily to things ; as mere existence is 
manifestly the first idea which the mind can have, as it is simple 
without involving any process of reasoning — substantives are 
evidently the first objects of our thoughts, and we learn their 
existence before we contemplate their actions, motions, or 
changes. Motion is a complex, and not a simple idea : it is 
gained from the comparison of two places or positions, and 
drawing a conclusion that a change has happened. Action, or 
the relation between the agent and the act, is still more complex : 
it implies the observation of two events following one another, 
but until we have pursued this sequence very often, we never 
could think of connecting them together. Those actions which 
we ourselves perform are yet less simple, and the experience 
which teaches us our own thoughts must be accompanied with 
more reflection. As for other ideas of a general or abstract 



226 MIND. 

nature, they are still later of being distinctly formed. Hence 
the origin of language must be traced to substantives, to 
existences, to simple apprehensions, to things. Having given 
names to these, we proceed to use those names in expressing 
change, action, motion, suffering, manners of doing, modes of 
suffering or of being. Thus verbs are employed, and they are 
obtained from substantives. Relations, relative positions, com- 
parisons, contrasts, affinities, negatives, exclamations follow ; 
and the power of expressing these is obtained from substantives 
and from verbs. So that all language becomes simply, 
naturally, rationally, resolved into substantives as its element ; 
or substantives and verbs, verbs themselves being acquired from 
substantives. 

" The simple grandeur of this leading idea which runs 
through the whole of Mr. Tooke's system at once recommends 
it to our acceptation. But the details of the theory are its great 
merit ; for he followed it into every minute particular of our 
language, and only left it imperfect in confining his speculations 
to the English tongue, while doubtless the doctrine is of 
universal application. He had great resources for the perform- 
ance of the task he thus set himself. A master of the old 
Saxon, the root of our noble language ; thoroughly and familiarly 
acquainted with all our best writers ; sufficiently skilled in other 
tongues, ancient and modern, though only generally, and, for 
any purposes but that of his Anglo-Saxon inquiry, rather 
superficially, he could trace with a clear and steady eye the 
relations, and' derivations of all our parts of speech; and in 
delivering his remarks, whether to illustrate his own principles, 
or to expose the errors of other theories, or to controvert and 
expose to ridicule his predecessors, his never-failing ingenuity 
and ready wit stood him in such constant stead, that he has 
made one of the driest subjects in the whole range of literature 
or science, one of the most amusing and even lively of books; 
nor did any one ever take up the Diversions of Purley (as he 
has quaintly chosen to call it) and lay it down till some other 
avocation tore it from his hands. 

"The success of this system has been such as its great essential 
merits, and its more superficial attractions combined, might have 



MIND. %%7 

led us to expect. All men are convinced of its truth; and as 
everything which had been done before was superseded by it, so 
nothing has since been effected, unless in pursuing its views, 
and building upon its solid foundations. >} 

But, after having paid this well-merited tribute to the talent 
and learning of Home Tooke, Lord Brougham adds : " one only 
fault is to be found, not so much with the system, as with its 
effects upon the understanding and habits of its ingenious 
author. Its brilliant success made him an etymologist and 
grammarian in everything/'' How clearly does this prove that 
Lord Brougham was wholly incapable of fathoming the depths, 
and of understanding the scope, tendency, and spirit of Home 
Tooke' s philosophy ! Home Tooke an etymologist and gram- 
marian ! I could as easily fancy him a manufacturer of babies' 
rattles ! He a grammarian ! He a gerund-grinder ! He a 
quibbling dealer in words ! He ! who scorned openly them and 
their art ! He ! who throughout his two quarto volumes never 
misses an opportunity of laughing them to scorn ! He ! who 
has said there is but one kind of word, and that is the name of 
a thing ! He a grammarian ! He an etymologist ! My Lord 
Brougham might just as well call Euclid a teacher of the a, b, c, 
because Euclid is obliged constantly to make use of these letters 
in order to demonstrate his problems. No man ever yet scorned 
the art of the grammarian and etymologist (considered per se) 
with half the heartiness with which Home Tooke despised both 
them and their art. But what Home Tooke did was this. 
When a man reasoned with him, he insisted upon his giving a 
meaning to his words — -that is to say, he insisted upon his 
talking intelligibly — upon his making "nature the expositor of 
words, and not words the expositor of nature." My Lord 
Brougham is content both to use and to listen to words which 
have no meaning. Home Tooke would listen to no words but 
such as had a meaning — a meaning in nature. 

Lord Brougham proceeds: "he" (Home Tooke) "became 
prone to turn all controversies into discussions on terms." My 
Lord Brougham, therefore, I suppose, considers it matter of little 
consequence whether the terms used in controversies are intelli- 
gible or not. " He saw roots and derivatives," says Lord 



228 MIND. 

Brougham, " in everything." That is to say, he saw that every 
word had a meaning in nature. And when he heard a word 
used in any other sense than that which was inherent in the 
word, and which had its representative in nature, he in- 
sisted upon the speaker explaining what he meant before he 
proceeded a step further. "He was apt," says Lord 
Brougham, "to think he had discovered a decisive argument, 
or solved a political, or a metaphysical, or an ethical problem, 
when he had only found the original meaning of a word." But 
if Lord Brougham had understood Home Tooke's philosophy 
(of which I herewith confidently assert that Lord Brougham is 
profoundly ignorant) he would have known that when once a 
word has lost its original meaning, it has, in fact, no meaning 
at all. But where in the world are we to look for the solution 
of any problem, if not to the meaning of the words in which 
that problem is couched ? 

"Thus," proceeds Brougham, "he would hold that the law of 
libel is unjust and absurd, because libel means a little book, 
which is no kind of proof that there may not be a substantive 
offence which goes by such a name, any more than forgery is 
denied to be a crime, although the original of the name is the 
very innocent operation of hammering iron softened in the fire. 
But he has also, in the case referred to, left wholly out of view 
half the phrase ; for it is certain that libel or libellus is not the 
Latin of libel, but libellus famosus, a defamatory writing." 

Now let it be granted at once that Lord Brougham's inter- 
pretation of the word libel is correct, and that it means a 
defamatory writing. Surely it is self-evident that in order to 
make any law a just law, it is necessary that it be defined, so that 
all men may know when they are infringing it and when not. 
Surely that must be an unjust law which is so promulgated that 
no man can tell when or how he breaks it ? Very well — but 
Lord Brougham says, the law of libel is a law against defamatory 
writing. And Home Tooke says that the law against defamatory 
writing is an unjust law, unless the law also defines wherein 
defamatory writing consists ; so that all men may know when 
what they write is legally defamatory, and when not. Now it is 
notorious that the law does not attempt to define wherein 



MIND. 



£29 



defamatory writing consists ; and, therefore, a man may commit 
defamation without knowing it. And, therefore, Home Tooke 
says that the law of libel is an unjust law. If the law say to 
the people : " you shall not commit such and such a crime/' 
without at the same time telling them wherein that crime 
consists, surely that law must be an unjust law. To say to the 
people : " you shall not commit the crime of defamation," 
without explaining to them wherein defamation consists, is the 
same thing as though it said : c< you shall not commit a 
particular crime — we will not tell you what that crime is ; but 
when you have committed it, then we will tell you what it is, 
and punish you for having committed it." When, therefore, 
Home Tooke said that the law of libel was unjust, because the 
word libel simply meant a little book, he merely intended to say, 
and did, in fact, say, that all laws are unjust which do not 
define the nature of the crimes which they caution mankind 
against committing. They give the law a name, but do not tell 
us what that name means. But enough — it is quite clear that 
Lord Brougham knows no more about Home Tooke's philosophy 
than he knows of the philosophy of the man-in-the-moon. 

But retournons a nos moutons. 

Mind, therefore, I say, like intellect, also resolves itself into 
knowledge — into that hoard of garnered sensations — into that 
pack of remembered things — wherein all knowledge consists. 
And there is no one reason, or mode of reasoning, in proof of 
the individuality, the unity, the separate existence, the active 
agency of mind, which same reason, and which same mode of 
reasoning, do not go to prove, with equal force and truth, the 
individuality, the unity, the separate existence, the active agency 
of gravitation. And whatever argument or kind of argument 
will prove, or go to prove, the separate existence of mind, as the 
being which performs the operation of thinking, will in like 
manner prove, or go to prove, the separate existence of gravita- 
tion, as the Being which performs the operation of pulling — 
videlicet, stones to the ground — the moon to the earth — the 
earth to the sun — the sun to the centre round which it revolves 
— and so on and so on. And, in like manner, whatever will 
prove, or go to prove, that gravitation is not a separate existence, 



230 MIND. 

an active being, which performs the operation of pulling, will 
also prove, or go to prove, that mind is not a separate existence, 
an active being, which performs the operation of thinking. If 
the supposition of a distinct agent be necessary in the one case, 
it is equally necessary in the other. If it be not necessary in 
the one case, it is not necessary in the other. And I defy my 
Lord Brougham, or any other metaphysical Oudenosopher, to 
gainsay this. 

The more I think of the importance of words, in all contro- 
versies, the more mighty does that importance prove itself to be. 
We bewilder ourselves in a labyrinth of words without meaning. 
We can scarcely stir a step in any argument without stumbling 
over some word in whose hidden meaning lurks all the difficulty 
of the disputation. Lord Brougham says that mind "is un- 
doubtedly connected with, but independent of, our bodily sen- 
sations/'' Now, at first sight, there seems nothing absurd in 
this passage. Because there is in it one word which is used 
without a meaning. But when we come to examine the mean- 
ing of that one word, we shall find that the whole sentence is 
manifest and glaring nonsense. That one word is the word 
" connected." What does Lord Brougham- mean by "connected"? 
Now I say that it is utterly and physically impossible for any 
two things to be te connected," and yet " independent" of each 
other. To be " connected" signifies to be joined together as 
two links in a chain are joined together. This is the literal 
sense of the word. It is clear that two links of a chain are not 
independent of each other — that neither can move this way or 
that without the consent of the other — that the one cannot be 
supported in air without being held up by the other — that if, 
being suspended in air, the one falls, the other must fall also. 
In fact, it is quite evident that, while connected, the movements of 
the one are wholly dependent upon the movements of the other. 

But it may be said that my Lord Brougham speaks figura- 
tively. It may be said that he only means they are connected 
as two men in partnership are said to be connected. Then I 
say, they are not connected at all. For two men in partnership 
are not really connected, but are only said to be connected. 
They are two men who have agreed to act as though they 



MIND. 231 

were connected. It is not that they cannot act apart from 
each, but that they will not. It is not that they really are 
joined like two links in a chain, but that they have agreed to 
act as though they were joined like two links in a chain. They 
are as separate, as distinct, as wholly disconnected, after they 
have entered into partnership as they were before. The word, 
with regard to men in partnership, is merely used by way of 
illustration. It merely means that two men have agreed to act 
as though they were joined together like two links of a chain, 
and could not move without each other's consent. They can 
act in opposition to each other if they please, as much after 
partnership as before ; the only difference is that they have 
agreed that they will not ; and the law will punish them if they 
do. If you ask a man who uses the word " connexion," with 
regard to two men in partnership, whether he really mean that 
the two men are joined together, he will acknowledge in a mo- 
ment that he does not mean any such thing. My Lord 
Brougham, therefore, in this passage, finds himself in this 
dilemna. Either he uses the word " connected" in its literal 
sense, or he does not. If he use it in its literal sense, then he 
manifestly talks absurdly when he says that mind is connected 
with, and yet independent of, sensation. For this is self- 
evidently impossible. If he use the word figuratively, as men 
do when they speak of two persons being connected in 
partnership, or by consanguinity, then he must, like them, 
admit that although he says so, he does not mean so ! Then 
I say what in the world does he mean ? 

It is this manner of speaking figuratively, and then forgetting 
that we do speak figuratively — it is this manner of saying what 
we do not really mean, and then supposing that we do really 
mean, what we say — which has also been another prolific source 
of misunderstanding, and of so much metaphysical jargon. 
Thus we say : " the clock tells the hour," but we do not mean 
that the clock actually speaks, but only that it answers the same 
end as though it really could and did speak, and really did tell 
the hour. 

But although this loose manner of conversing is all very well 
and admissible in ordinary conversation, it will not do at all in 



232 MIND. 

matters of philosophy. In matters of philosophy, if we would 
talk intelligibly, and sensibly, we must say exactly what we 
mean, and no more, nor less. Poetry and philosophy are as 
diametrically opposed to each other as the north pole to the 
south. 

My publisher has this day put into my hands an American 
work, called — a Treatise on Language ; or, the Relation which 
Words bear to Things, by A. B. Johnson. I have barely had 
time to look into it. But it is with books as with men. A fool 
cannot open his mouth without betraying himself. Neither can 
you open a sensible book at any page without seeing at once 
that it is a sensible book. The first sentence which caught my 
eye was the following : " We make language the expositor of 
nature, instead of making nature the expositor of language." 
Oh ! how true this is ! and how neatly and tersely expressed ! 
How much more forcible and comprehensive than my own 
manner of explaining the same fact. I allude to what I said 
just now, viz., that "language was made for things, and 
not things for language." If men would but take the trou- 
ble to understand what they read — to follow out every position 
into its inevitable consequences* — this one sentence of A. B. 
Johnson would be all that is necessary in order to explain 
and to explode that mighty system of metaphysical humbug 
which has vexed the civilized world so long. All that could 
be said, were a man to write from this day to the end of time, 
on the cause and nature of the ridiculous tom-fooleries which 
have crept into philosophy, could be nothing more than an am- 
plification, and a series of illustrations of this one sentence of 
A. B. Johnson: "We make language the expositor of nature, 
instead of making nature the expositor of language." Things 
were not made to fit words, but words to fit things. 



* Utilitarians ! think ! carry out your views to their legitimate extremes, 
and observe the consequences. 



233 



CHAPTER VIII, 



TO BE. 

B. 

What is sensation ? 

A. 

I cannot answer yonr question unless I understand it. And 
I cannot understand the question unless I understand the 
meaning of the words wherein the question is clothed — for 
words are but the clothing wherein a man's meaning is wrapt 
up. Certainly the words themselves do not constitute the 
meaning of the words. 

The word is, of itself, is nothing more than a sound — and 
that sound is the representative of something else which we call 
meaning. Now I do not know the meaning which is represented 
by this word is as you have employed it in your question. You 
know, as I have before explained to you, the meaning must exist 
in the speaker's mind before it exists in the word. That is to 
say, there is something in the mind of the speaker — an idea or 
sensation. He wishes to excite the same sensation in the 
mind of the hearer. In order that we may be able to do this, 
we (mankind) have agreed to give certain particular names to 
certain particular sensations, just as a man gives a particular 
name to every hound in his pack, which name, being associated 
with the particular sensation which it represents, does, on being 
pronounced, excite in the mind of the hearer, or call to his 
recollection, that particular sensation of which it is the name. 
Just as on pronouncing the word Bingwood, there instantly 
comes into your memory the sensation or idea of that particular 
dog, in Mr. "WVs pack of hounds, which we had occasion to 
mention in our last conversation, and which has, you say, lately 



234 TO BE. 

lost an eye. Now I say I do not know what particular sensation 
or idea you mean should be represented or communicated by 
that word is } when you say : " what is sensation V 

B. 

I will not waste time by attempting to explain the particular 
meaning of is, for I confess I do not know. I am here rather 
for the purpose of being instructed., than for the purpose of 
disputing with you. There is something so perfectly novel in 
this mode of insisting upon a particular meaning for every 
particular word — something so apparently impossible — that I 
find myself bewildered even in the attempt to do so. 

At your earnest desire I have carefully read Home Tooke's 
great work, and am perfectly satisfied that his views of language 
are correct. But Home Tooke has said nothing about this 
word is. He has only promised to explain it in some future 
conversation, which however he did not live to perform. 

A. 

No — but in his system he has left us the means of doing it 
for ourselves. He has given us the clue, which, if we follow it, 
will conduct us into every apartment of the labyrinth. He has 
put us into the right path, and we have nothing to do but to 
travel straight onward, and it will conduct us unerringly to the 
temple of truth. And for men of common sense, if they will 
but take the trouble to use it, this should be sufficient. If I 
want to travel to any particular town, surely it ought to be 
sufficient to show me the road which leads straight to it. It 
might be necessary perhaps to take a child by the hand and go 
along with him all the way. But for any one possessing 
common sense, one would suppose that to point out the straight 
road would be all that was necessary. 

But, it seems, this has been by no means sufficient for many 
of the readers of Home Tooke. He died and left them in the 
middle of the journey. He and they were travelling together 
along a road as straight as an arrow. Yet when he stopped, 
they stopped also. Straight as the road is, they do not seem to 
have been able to stir one step farther, after he, their guide, had 
left them. 

According to Home Tooke' s system of language, f ■ that is not 



TO BE. 235 

a word which is not the name of a thing." And my Lord 
Brougham says this system of language is so " reasonable and 
natural" — so " simple" — so undoubtedly true — that "all men be- 
lieve it." And yet it is perfectly clear that either Lord Brougham 
does not believe it himself, or else he does not understand one 
word about it. For all that he has said about mind is, according 
to Home Tooke' s system of language, the most unqualified 
nonsense. According to Home Tooke's system of language the 
word mind signifies that which one remembers. But I suppose 
even my Lord Brougham must acknowledge that a man cannot 
remember that which he has never seen, nor heard, nor tasted, 
nor smelled, nor felt ! And yet my Lord Brougham declares 
the mind to be independent of all other things ! Home Tooke 
declares that " the whole business of the mind consists in having 
sensations." My Lord Brougham declares the mind to be a 
" reasoning, inferring, believing, active Being!" And yet this 
very same Lord Brougham says of this very same Home Tooke, 
that his system of language is incontrovertible, and "all men 
believe it." My Lord Brougham readily admits the premises, 
but has never once troubled his head about the conclusions to 
which those premises inevitably and directly lead — and has thus 
suffered himself to be betrayed into admitting that a and b are 
both equal to c, while, almost in the same breath, he denies that 
a and b are equal to one another. 

You say " there is something so novel in this mode of insisting 
upon a meaning for every word" — yet surely you will admit 
that it is necessary, if we would talk sensibly and intelligibly. 
For a word without a meaning is clearly an unmeaning word — 
a mere idle noise, like the word hem ! And if, when you ask a 
question, you use unmeaning words — idle noises, like the word 
hem ! — how is it possible that your question can be understood ? 
If, when you answer a question, you only make idle noises, 
instead of using meaning words, how can you convey instruction ? 
If, when you talk, half the words you use be mere empty sounds, 
like the gabble of a goose, who can profit by your conversation ? 
If you use a word which does not represent any meaning in you, 
for what purpose do you use that word ? Not for the purpose 
of communicating your meaning, for, in that case, you have no 

s2 



TO BE. 

meaning to communicate ! Then, I say, for what purpose do 
you use the word at all ? 

You say you do not know what you mean by that particular 
word is, as it stands in the question, "what is sensation ? The 
whole question consists of but three words, and you confess that 
you do not know the meaning of two of them ! But you 
certainly know the meaning of the verb to be ! It signifies, you 
know, to exist. 

B. 

Yes — I know that — and when you asked me the meaning of 
the word is, I was on the point of telling you that it means, and 
is equivalent to, the word exists. But I recollected that if two 
words mean the same thing, and be equivalent to each other, 
they are also mutually convertible. But in this question I find 
I cannot substitute exists for is — I cannot say, "what exists 
sensation." 

A. 

It would be an unusual manner of speaking, but it would be, 
nevertheless, to the full as sensible a question as, "what is 
sensation V 3 

But the truth is, we are in the habit of using the word is 
almost constantly in an arbitrary and spurious sense, and in a 
particular form of expression adapted to that spurious sense. 
But in this question you are using the word is in its legitimate 
sense ; but being unconscious of this, you are employing it in 
connexion with that particular form of expression which is only 
adapted to its spurious sense. For custom having taught us to 
use one word in the place of another — we having got into the 
habit of frequently expressing a particular meaning by using a 
word to which that meaning does not properly belong — and not 
being conscious of this arbitrary substitution of one word for 
another— we do not know when we use it in its spurious sense, 
and when in its legitimate sense. I will endeavour to illustrate 
this, for it is exceedingly important ; since, " so far as we know 
not our own meaning, we do but gabble like things most 
brutish." 

Now attend. Suppose you and I are walking in Hyde Park, 
and your attention is attracted to one particular gentleman as 



TO BE. 237 

he rides past us. And suppose you point to that gentleman, 
and say to me, " who is that V And suppose I say, in reply, 
"that is the Duke of Wellington." Would not that answer 
satisfy the question fully ? 

B. 

Certainly. 

A. 

You will admit that my answer is a full proof that I under- 
stood your meaning — and that you did really mean exactly what 
I guessed you to mean ? 

B. 

Undoubtedly. 

A. 

Then why did you not say what you meant ? Why did you 
not say : " by what name do men call that gentleman ?" or, 
" how do you call that gentleman V or, " how name you that 
gentleman V You acknowledge that this is what you meant, 
and it is quite clear (whether you acknowledge it or not) that 
this is what you did mean. Then I say, why do you not always 
say what you mean, by using words in their proper and legiti- 
mate sense ? 

That my answer satisfied your question is sufficient proof that 
when you said, " who is that gentleman V 3 you really meant 
" how name you that gentleman ?" But if, for argument's sake, 
you deny that you meant what I have supposed, then I say your 
question is null — it is a mere senseless gabble. 

But you may, in order to puzzle me, and for argument's 
sake, affirm that my answer did not fully satisfy your question — 
that you wanted to know more — and that, in order fully to 
satisfy you, I ought to have told you that, " it was the gentleman 
who conducted to a victorious conclusion the peninsular war — 
who fought and won the battle of Waterloo, &c. &c." But to 
this I reply, that to satisfy you is one thing, and to satisfy your 
question is quite another. If you wanted more information you 
should have asked more questions. The rest of the information 
is an answer to a question which you did not ask. It is an 
answer to the question : " for what exploits is that gentleman 
celebrated V or, " how has his life been spent ?" or some 



%SS TO BE. 

question of that sort. But as you did not ask this question, I 
was not called upon to answer it. Although, therefore, my 
answer might not satisfy you, it satisfied your one question 
fully, and that is sufficient In ordinary conversation, I may 
take it for granted that you desire to know more than is implied 
in the simple question. But in argument, if we would argue 
clearly, nothing must be taken for granted. The questioner 
must say exactly what he means and no more ; and his opponent 
must reply to that meaning and no more. The proverb " one 
thing at a time" is no where more necessary to be observed than 
in argument, if we would arrive at any sound conclusion. 

Your question, if it mean more than one thing, becomes 
general, and can only receive a general answer. But all generals 
are made up of several particulars. And it is manifestly 
impossible for me to reply to these particulars, unless you tell 
me what they are. Reduce your general question to the 
particulars whereof it is composed, and state them one at a time, 
and I can and will, then, answer them all. 

If, when you say : " who is that man V 3 you desire to know 
several other things besides his name, only tell me what those 
several other things are which you desire to know, and I can 
then inform you. If, besides his name, you want to know 
where he lives, and where he was born, and what he has been 
doing all his life, how can I reply to these particular questions 
if you do not ask them ? 

When a child goes out for the first time with his father, his 
reiterated question is : " what is that ? what is that V and 
having, in answer, been told its name, he then proceeds to ask 
other questions, as : " what is it for t" And even here the 
word is means name. The child really means what do you call 
the name of the purposes to which it is applied— and having 
heard these purposes named by his father, he is satisfied. He 
does not require his father to show him the purposes in the act 
of being fulfilled. He is satisfied to hear them named, if, being 
named, he can understand them. Thus, if the child see a ferry- 
boat in the river, his first question is — " what is that ?" to 
which the ready answer is : "a ferry-boat." " What is a ferry- 
boat for, papa ?" is the next question. To this the ready 



TO BE. 239 

answer is : "to carry people across the water;" and the child is 
satisfied. He wanted to know, first, the name of what he saw, 
in order that when he heard that name he might know, that is* 
remember, the object indicated by that name; and henceforward 
the sound of the word ferry-boat becomes associated in the 
child's mind with the recollection of the object which he then 
saw ; and whenever he hears the word ferry-boat, the sensation, 
or idea, or recollection of that object will become present to his 
imagination. The sensation, or as we say, the idea of a ferry- 
boat has now become one of the child's pack of remembered 
things or sensations, known to him by the name of ferry-boat, 
just as the dog Ringwood is one of Mr. W.'s pack of hounds, 
known to you and the huntsmen by the name of Ringwood. 
The word ferry-boat is, to that child, the sign of a remembered 
ferry-boat. 

Secondly, he wanted to know the name of the purpose to 
which a ferry-boat is applied. His father told him the name 
of this purpose, viz. " To-carry-people-across-the-water." This 
whole sentence is the name of the purpose of the ferry-boat. 
And the child is satisfied with the name of the purpose — he does 
not require to see the purpose accomplished. He can understand 
it without. For, having in his mind the several sensations of 
people, water, ferry-boat, the two banks of the river, &c, he can 
(as we say) fancy the boat full of people, and in the act of 
moving over the water across the river. But let us inquire a 
little wherein this said fancying consists. It happens thus. 
On hearing the sentence : "to carry people across the water" — 
the things represented by the principal words of that sentence 
being associated in the child's mind with the sound of the 
words — there comes into his mind the remembrance of those 
things — a picture in which those things form the principal 
objects. And on hearing the word "ferry-boat" uttered in 
connection with the other words — those words which his father 
employed to name the purpose of a ferry-boat — a remembered 
ferry-boat is added to the other objects constituting the picture. 
The sentence, "to carry people across the water" suggests to the 
child's mind a picture, whereof the chief objects are water, the 
two banks of the river, and people standing on one bank and 



£40 TO BE. 

requiring to be transported to the other. Having been shown 
a ferry-boat and told its purpose, the idea of a ferry-boat is 
immediately added to the picture, while the arrangement of 
the objects is changed. The child now sees (in his imagination, 
as we say) a ferry-boat near one bank ; he sees people stepping 
into it ; he sees them presently in the middle of the river, and 
finally stepping out of the boat upon the opposite bank. There- 
fore, I say, having heard the name of the purpose of a ferry-boat, 
he does not require to see that purpose accomplished, because 
he understands the meaning of that name — that is to say, he 
has in his memory all those sensations which are represented 
by the several words composing that name, which words sug- 
gest to him the things which they represent — a picture of the 
purpose of a ferry-boat in the act of accomplishment. But if 
you tell the child that the purpose of the ferry-boat is to per- 
form the operation of blynamming, or the operation of think- 
ing, or reflecting, then I say the child would not be satisfied 
with the name of this purpose, but would require his father to 
show him the purpose in the act of accomplishment, because he 
would not understand the meaning of the name — that is to say, 
he would not have in his memory any sensation, or sensations, 
or ideas, represented by the words blynamming, thinking, or 
reflection. 

I will just call upon you here to observe, en passant, the 
meaning of the word know. When I say that the child does 
know the meaning of the word ferry-boat, it is clear that the 
words u does know" signify "does remember" — that is, does 
remember an object called ferry-boat. And that when I say 
the child does not know the meaning of the word blynamming — 
I clearly mean that he does not remember an object or objects 
called by that name. 

When, therefore, like the child, in ordinary conversation, we 
point to an object we never saw before, and say: "What is 
that V we use the word is in its spurious sense, arbitrarily 
substituting it for the verb to name. And this particular 
spurious meaning of the word is demands a particular form — a 
particular arrangement of words — in enunciating the question, 
which is not suited, according to the genius of the English 
tongue, to its legitimate meaning. 



TO BE. 241 

When the verb to be is used as a substitute for the verb to 
name, the same arrangement of words is required as though the 
verb to name were actually itself used. As you observe, we 
cannot say, " what exists that V 3 although something like this is 
what we really mean. Such and so complicated is the con- 
fusion arising from the use of words in an arbitrary sense. 
Sometimes using a word in its arbitrary sense, and sometimes 
in its legitimate sense, and not knowing when we do the one 
and when the other, if we be suddenly asked what we mean by 
the word, we really cannot always tell. And this is more espe- 
cially the case when the arbitrary sense requires one form of 
expression, and the legitimate sense another ; and whan we 
change the meaning of the word without changing the form of 
the sentence wherein that word is used. Thus, in your question, 
the word is has its legitimate sense of exist (the meaning of 
which I will explain by and bye). But when I asked you 
whether this was your meaning, you said, no ; because you 
recollected this meaning would not suit that particular form of 
expression — because you could not say, "what exists sensa- 
tion V 3 But had you altered the form of expression so as to suit 
the altered meaning of the word is — that is, altered from its fre- 
quent arbitrary meaning to its legitimate meaning — had you 
used the word how instead of what — then you could have sub- 
stituted the word exist — and you could then have said : " how' 3 
— that is, " after what manner, does sensation exist V 3 

B. 

But had I used the word how, then I could not have used the 
word is. 

A. 

Why not ? 

B. 

It has an extremely awkward sound at least. 

A. 

That is simply because we hardly ever interrogatively use the 
word is in its legitimate sense of exists, but almost always in its 
spurious sense of name. So that whenever we are, as it were, 
driven,, as I am now driving you, to use it in its legitimate 
sense, and with the necessary and corresponding form of speech, 



242 TO BE. 

it has a strange and unwonted sound. But we do sometimes use 
this word in its legitimate sense even interrogatively. And 
then we always use the word how also. Thus we say : 
" how is your health now V 3 and sometimes, " how stands 
your health now V s (I pray you to mark the use of this word 
stands. Because I shall have occasion to show you presently that 
to exist means to stand.) In this question: "how is your 
health/' we mean "after what manner does your health now 
exist." " Does it exist now in a better or worse condition than 
formerly V 3 Our meaning, in this question, is self-evident, and 
therefore we always say how, and not what. And because we 
frequently ask this question, and because we always couple it 
with the word how, therefore it does not in this particular 
instance seem awkward. 

When you ask me : " what is sensation V 3 you use that form of 
expression which is only suitable when the speaker desires to 
know the name of a thing. But this is clearly not your mean- 
ing, because the question itself names the name, and proves that 
you already know it. Since then you do not use the word is 
in its spurious sense, neither must you use that peculiar form of 
expression which is only suited to the spurious sense. Using 
the word in its legitimate sense you must also use that form of 
expression which is suited to that sense ; your question will then 
become intelligible, and capable of being answered. For your 
question : " what is sensation V 3 is only unanswerable because it 
is unintelligible — because it does not point to any specific and 
definite information which you desire to have imparted to you. 
It is this loose, elliptical, and unintelligible employment of the 
word is in this interrogative form which, of itself, has contri- 
buted most largely to those metaphysical so-called difficulties 
which have distracted the brains of so many learned men. 
" What is mind V 3 " what is sensation V 3 " what is matter V 3 
" what is pain V 3 " what is thought V 3 say they. To all this, 
I reply : " gentlemen, only tell me what you mean, and I will 
answer you. To me your words are unintelligible ; and if you 
cannot tell me what they mean, I must conclude that they are 
equally unintelligible to yourselves, and so mean nothing at all ; 
and are, therefore, just as unanswerable as is the creaking of a 
door upon its hinge— and for the same reason. 



TO BE. 243 

" I know by the mere fact of your speaking that you mean 
something, but the words which you use do not indicate, do not 
define, that particular something, so as to make it distinctly in- 
telligible to me. The information which you desire is particular, 
while that which you ask for is general. It is as though you 
had in your mind the remembrance of some one particular tree, 
and should desire me to draw an exact representation of it on 
paper, without telling me what particular tree it was which you 
meant, but merely that it was a tree. Tell me what particular 
tree it is which you desire to have represented on paper and I 
will draw it." 

And so, only tell me what particular information you desire 
to obtain about sensation, and I will answer you. 

Whenever a dog barks he has a meaning. That is to say, 
there is in the dog some sensation which is the cause of his 
barking. But he has no means of particularizing that sensation 
— no means of distinguishing it from other sensations — because 
the language of a dog is wholly general. He has but one name 
for all his sensations, viz. what we call barking. When a dog 
barks, therefore, we do not know his meaning. It is not that 
he has no meaning, but that he has no means of making his 
meaning common to himself and us at the same time — that is, 
of communicating it — for want of particular terms. When a dog 
wants any thing, he barks. But we cannot satisfy that want, 
because, although we know by his barking that he wants some- 
thing, we cannot tell what that particular something is which he 
wants. 

It is the same with your question. I know by your speaking 
that you want some information about sensation, but I cannot 
satisfy your want until you have told me what that particular 
something is which you want. Your question, as you put it, in- 
dicates no more than the barking of a dog. 

But you certainly cannot mean, " what is the name of sen- 
sation," because the question itself, as I have before said, names 
the name ; which shows that it is not the name after which you 
are inquiring. 

What you mean, if you mean anything, must, therefore, I 
suppose, be this : " after what manner does sensation exist V 9 



244 TO BE. 

What is its mode of existence ? After the manner of what other 
thing does sensation exist ? Does it exist after the manner of 
matter ? or any particular form of matter ? Does it exist after 
the manner of a stone ? or of water ? or of air ? or of a tree ? or 
of an animal ? What is the hind of its existence ? That is, to 
what other existence is the existence of sensation of kin — for 
that is the meaning of the word kind. In a word, the question 
means, " what is sensation like V 3 For when we are inquiring 
about a thing which we do not know — a thing which, having 
never seen it, heard it, felt it, tasted it, or smelled it, we cannot 
of course remember — a thing, the likeness or picture or sensation 
of which does not exist in our pack of remembered things — the 
only way in which our inquiry can be satisfied — the only way in 
which we can derive a tolerably correct idea of it, is by being 
informed what it is like — by having it drawn on paper, and then 
by being told that it is like that drawing — or by being reminded 
of something which we do remember, and by being told that 
it is like that remembered thing. Thus if a man ask me : 
" what is a gazelle V 3 his question is sufficiently satisfied if I 
tell him it is an animal resembling a deer. But after all, he 
cannot thus acquire a strictly correct idea of a gazelle. His 
idea of a gazelle will only be the idea of a deer associated with 
the name of a gazelle. And this mode of acquiring ideas is 
sufficiently correct for all ordinary purposes, but not for the 
purposes of science or philosophy. If he would have a strictly 
correct idea of a gazelle, nothing in the world can give him that 
but the sight of a gazelle. 

If the thing after which a man inquires be of kin to nothing 
else in nature, then his question : " what is it V 3 can only be 
satisfied by causing him to see it, hear it, feel it, taste it, or 
smell it. 

Whenever, therefore, we use the word is in such questions 
as: "who is that?" "what is that?" &c. what we desire to 
know is merely the particular name of that particular thing or 
person. But when the question itself names the thing, then is 
(if it have any meaning at all) has the sense of the word exists. 
And the question, " what is sensation t" is an elliptical way of 
saying " after what manner, or, after the manner of what, does 



TO BE. 245 

sensation exist ?" which is clearly equivalent to, " what other 
thing is sensation like V And to this question I reply : " it 
has no similitude in nature." Are you satisfied ? 

B. 

No. 

A. 

What is it then which you desire to know ? Only tell me 
what that particular information is which you want me to give 
you, and I will do so. 

B. 

You embarrass me, I confess. But still I am quite sure that 
I have a meaning. 

A. 

But I suppose you will admit that it is impossible for me to 
reply to your meaning, unless you make me know what that 
meaning is — and it is that for which I wait. 

B. 

I want to know as much about sensation as I do about that 
chair, and to understand its nature as well. 

A. 

That is to say, you want to be able to see it and feel it. But 
to require me to make you see a sensation is absurd. You 
might as well desire me to make you taste the moon, or smell 
the national anthem, " God save the Queen." The fact is clear 
that you do not know what you mean. The question is general, 
and, if it have a meaning at all, it means everything in general, 
but nothing in particular. But before it can be answered 
satisfactorily it must have a particular meaning; and this 
particular meaning can only be ascertained by fixing the 
meaning of every word whereof the sentence is composed; and 
then you will find no more difficulty about this question than 
about any other question, however common. As it stands now, 
it consists of words which are words merely. They are arranged, 
indeed — but the arrangement is according to the rules of 
grammar, not according to any rule of nature. It has no more 
significance than if I were to ask you : "what is the sound of a 
loaf of bread 1" It is merely a definite number of words 
arranged according to grammar, but indicating, that is, pointing 



246 TO BE. 

towards, that is, directing the attention to, that is, causing me to 
remember, or, as we say, to see with my mind's eye, no particular 
thing or things in nature. It is "vox et praeterea nihil." It 
consists of shadows without substance. It is composed of words 
which have been vacated by their several meanings, and which, 
having been so vacated, are no longer anything more than x, y, z. 
Besides all this, it speaks of sensation as though it were the 
name of a unit in nature, as tree, or house, or horse ; and you 
seem to expect that it is something which can he recognised by 
more senses than one, as most visible objects can — but not all, 
for you cannot see the wind. 

I will reduce the words of the question to a definite meaning 
■ — I will show you what they signify in nature. You may, if 
you please, tell me afterwards that this is not the meaning 
which you intended. But we shall have gained a point. We 
shall then know (whatever meaning may be in you) what that 
meaning was which was in those who first invented the words, 
and which is still inherent in the words, and which the words 
will communicate to those who understand their signification in 
spite of themselves. For it is not a matter of choice whether a 
word shall communicate a particular meaning or not. If the 
word be understood, it will do so in spite of us. And if it be 
not understood, it has ceased to fulfil the office of a word, and, 
properly speaking, is no longer a word. And this is the case 
with the words which you use in your question. 

If I utter the word spoon, that sound causes me to remember 
a spoon, whether I like it or not. But the words of your question 
(as used by you) cause me to remember nothing, and (as I 
believe) are the signs of nothing which is remembered by you. 

When I have told you what these words do really signify, if 
you deny that it is what you intended, it will then be incumbent 
on you to make me know what it was which you did intend. 
And you will be reduced to the necessity of admitting that, 
until you can do this, your question is nothing but a series of 
unintelligible words. 

You know, whenever we want to convert a noun into a verb, 
we do so in a moment, merely by prefixing the little word to to 
it — thus from ship we make to ship, as " to ship goods" — from 



TO BE. 247 

fire we have to fire, as " to fire a house/' " to fire a gun" — from 
house we get to house, (giving the s the sound of z as though it 
were spelled houze) as, " I hope to be able to house all my corn 
before night" — from finger we make to finger, as, " I desire 
you not to finger those things." The Anglo-Saxons converted 
their nouns into verbs by adding the little words an, ian, gan, 
and sometimes on to the end of them. 

B. 

All that is very clear, and you have said the same thing two 
or three times before. 

A. 

Yes — it is clear to the learned — and to those who know the 
fact already it is sufficient to mention it once. But if you 
desire to make a thing known to those who do not know it 
already — to say it a hundred times is often not sufficient to 
make them remember it. Home Tooke said, "that is not a word 
which is not the sign of a thing." He also said that he had no 
further concern with etymology than as it afforded a correct 
notion (not of words) but of things. He said, too, that he 
arrived at his system of language by a priori reasoning, and not 
by the study of languages; but that he afterwards applied 
himself to the study of language to see whether the actual 
structure of actual languages would bear out his system — to see 
whether he could find, in the structure of language, that which 
he ought to find there, if his previous conclusions drawn from 
a priori reasoning were true. But then he only said these 
things once. And the very natural consequence has been that 
these remarks have been entirely overlooked or forgotten, and 
the very end and object of his work wholly misunderstood. In 
spite of his one declaration that he was but slightly concerned 
with etymology, one of his greatest admirers, Lord Brougham, 
calls him an etymologist and grammarian. 

Had he repeated these important remarks in every third page, 
it would have been far otherwise. 

But let us proceed. This little word to, you know, being the 
past participle of a northern verb signifying to act, to perform, 
to do, means something, anything, done. By coupling, there- 
fore, the word to with a noun — that is, the name of a thing — 



248 TO BE. 

we also couple with that noun the notion of something done ; 
and the nature of the thing signified by the noun suggests to 
the mind the nature of the action intended. Something done is 
a general term, like the word fact, conveying no definite 
information. But when this general term is coupled with the 
name of a particular thing, the general term instantly becomes 
particular ; because particular things are associated in our minds 
with those particular actions which we usually see performed by 
those particular things, or with reference to those particular 
things. 

Thus the name of a thing suggests to the mind the thing 
merely. But when " something done" is added to the name of 
the thing, then that particular something which we are accustomed 
to see done by that particular thing, or in connexion with it, is 
instantly brought to the mind also. Thus the word gun signifies 
a gun merely. But the verb to gun, or to go a-gunning, signifies, 
not only a gun, but also something done by or with reference to 
a gun. And the nature of that something which is done, is 
clearly defined by the nature of the thing spoken of in connexion 
with it, viz. a gun ; for while the word to suggests to the mind 
merely something done, the word gun suggests at the same 
moment that particular something which we have been accus- 
tomed to see performed by a gun. 

To go a-gunning, therefore, signifies to go a-gun-acting, or 
acting with a gun. But the action is not always performed by 
the thing mentioned, but often only with reference to it. And 
whether the action be performed by the thing, or only (as we 
say) upon the thing, is determined merely by suggestion— that 
is to say, by what we have been accustomed to see, and what we 
remember. Thus to go a-birding does not signify to go a-bird- 
acting, that is, acting with or by a bird, but only with reference 
to a bird. The bird is not the instrument by means of which 
we act, but it is the object which determines the manner of our 
acting, and forms the end, the achievement of which is the cause 
of our acting. But in both instances the speaker is perfectly 
understood, because by making the hearer remember the things 
spoken of, he cannot help also remembering the particular sort 
of actions which are associated in his memory with those two 



TO BE. 249 

particular things. To go a-gunning does not necessarily imply 
the shooting of birds. A man may only shoot deer. Nor does 
to go a-birding necessarily imply the taking of birds by means 
of a gun. A man may take birds by means of snares. But to 
go a-gunning does necessarily signify to do what men generally 
do with a gun. And to go a-birding does necessarily suggest 
to the mind those actions which men generally perform whose 
object is the taking of birds. But if a man had never seen nor 
heard of birds being taken by any other means than by killing 
them with a gun, then to his mind to go a-birding would 
necessarily signify to go a-gunning. Because the word bird 
could not suggest to his mind actions in connexion with birds 
which he had never seen performed in connexion with birds. 

The word bovj signifies a bow merely. But to bow signifies 
" something more" then a bow merely. Besides a bow, it 
signifies something done by, or to, or in connexion with, or after 
the manner of, a bow. And this something done } is that very 
"something more" which Home Tooke declared characterized 
the noun after it had been made into a verb — and which 
constituted the only difference between a noun and a verb. The 
noun, said he, is the name of a thing ; and a verb is also the 
name of a thing ; but then it is also the name of " something 
more." The explanation of this <( something more" he refused 
to make at that time ; but deferred to some future conversation, 
which, however, he did not live to hold. " If you finish thus," 
says his colloquist, " you will leave me much unsatisfied. What 
is the verb ? What is that peculiar differential circumstance 
which, added to the definition of a noun, constitutes the verb ?" 
To this Home Tooke replies : "I am not in the humor at 
present to discuss with you the meaning of Mr. Harris's — 
s whatever a thing may be, it must first of necessity be, before it 
can be anything else' — with which precious jargon he commences 
his account of the verb. No. We will leave off here for the 
present." 

To bow, therefore, signifies to do with ourselves what we are 
accustomed to see done with bows, viz. to bend ourselves. The 
word to, merely signifies generally something done; while the 
word bow reduces that general something to a particular some- 



250 TO BE. 

tiling — that is, tells you what that something is — viz. that 
which is done with regard to bows. 

To dog one's steps is to do that which a dog does when he 
pursues an animal of chase. To signifies something done — dog 
defines that something ; and suggests to the mind the particular 
sort of action intended. U I desire you to dog that man's 
steps." " I desire you to," signifies merely, " I desire some- 
thing done by you. - " But what is that something which you 
are desired to perform ? Then follows the word dog, which 
instantly answers the question, by suggesting to the mind that 
particular sort of actions which dogs are employed to perform 
with regard to animals of chase. The word dog follows so 
closely upon the word to that the hearer has not time actually 
to ask this question. The question is rendered unnecessary by 
being answered before it is conceived. But if the speaker were 
to break off at the word to — if he were merely to say, " I desire 

you to" the question would be actually asked by the hearer 

■ — " to do what ?" he would say. " What is it you desire me to 
do ?" And the nature of this question — his use of the word do 
—proves infallibly that he perfectly understood the meaning of 
the word to. It proves beyond question that he knew you 
required something to be done, although he did not know what 
that particular something was, until you mentioned the word 
dog. There is not any clown who would not know that you 
desired to have something done by him, were you to say to him, 
" I desire you to" — and then leave off speaking. And, there- 
fore, there is not any clown who does not perfectly understand 
the meaning of the word to ; -although, if you should ask him 
what it means, he certainly would not be able to tell you. But 
this is only from not knowing how to clothe its meaning in 
words. What you call knowing the meaning of the ivord to, is, 
the being able to clothe that meaning in other words which is now 
clothed in the word to. 

But to know the meaning of a word, and to tell the meaning 
of a word, are two exceedingly different things. This is of such 
immense importance, and I shall so shortly have occasion to 
allude to it more particularly, that I must now endeavour to 
impress it on your memory by repeating it — to know the mean- 



TO BE. 253 

ing of a word, and to tell the meaning of a word are two quite 
different things — the one being to know a word, and the other 
to know a thing. 

" I desire to house myself from the storm." I desire some- 
thing done with myself in order to avoid being wetted. What 
is that something which I desire to have done with myself. Is 
it to be clothed in a great coat ? No. Is it to have an 
umbrella expanded over me ? No. What then is that particular 
something which I desire to have done with myself, and, in this 
instance, by myself ? Then comes the word house, and answers 
the question at once, by suggesting to the mind that particular 
class of actions which men perform with regard to a house, and 
in order to enable them to perform which, houses are expressly 
built, viz. to go into it, and to dwell in it for a season, in order 
to be sheltered by it. 

But this is so exceedingly simple and plain that I cannot 
suppose it necessary to dwell longer upon it. To me it seems 
astonishing that it is not to all men self-evident. And it would 
be so, were not men accustomed to attend merely to the sound 
rather than to the meaning of the words they use. But they 
have been taught to consider words as of so little importance, 
that they never think about them at all, either as words merely, 
or as the signs of things. It is perfectly true that words, quasi 
words, and words merely, are of no more consequence than the 
creaking of a door, or any other idle noise. And so a bank-note, 
as a bank-note merely, is of no more use or value than a lady's 
curl paper. But bank-notes considered as the representatives 
of gold are of very great importance, and demand to have great 
attention paid to them, in order to assure ourselves that they are 
bona fide representatives of gold — that they are not factitious — 
that they are such as can be converted into gold whenever the 
holder of them chooses. So of words — as words merely, they are 
unimportant. But as the representatives of things, they demand 
great attention, in order to assure ourselves that the words we 
use and hear are not words merely, but such words as have a 
bona fide meaning, and can be converted into things whenever he 
for whose behoof they are used — that is, the bearer — chooses to 
demand it. And yet those very persons who are so loud in 

t 2 



252 TO BE. 

decrying all attention to words, are the very persons who (un- 
consciously and because, in fact, they know nothing about either 
them or their use) are perpetually talking of nothing else but 
words; and in all their inquiries (as I shall show directly) do, in 
reality, inquire after nothing but words. 

But now let us return to the word be. Are you quite sure 
you have not already forgotten what I have just told you about 
the word to ? 

B. 

Quite sure. 

A. 

Very well. The word be then is an old northern word, signi- 
fying a house, or habitation, of any sort, of which fact you may 
readily convince yourself by consulting Jamieson's Hermes 
Cythicus (a very different sort of Hermes, I trow, from the 
Hermes of Mr. Harris), Dr. Bosworth's Anglo-Saxon Lexicon, 
&c. The word be, therefore, signifying a house, the verb to be. 
is exactly equivalent to our verb to house. And what is the 
meaning of the verb to house ? Observe, I do not say to house 
goods, or to house from the storm, but simply to house. If, as 
you assured me just now, you have not already forgotten what I 
told you is the force of the word to, you will see in an instant 
what must be the meaning of the verb to house. It means to do 
that with regard to a house which those things do which possess 
houses — that is, to dwell sometimes in a house — to go in and 
out of a house — to perform the actions of those things which 
possess houses. But what are those things which possess 
houses ? Living beings. All living things have houses — ■ 
dwelling-places. The fox has his hole, the rabbit its burrow^ 
the hare its form, the eagle her eyrie, the smaller birds their 
nests and trees, the lion his lair, the caterpillar its leaf, the 
whale has the whole ocean, the eel its hole in the mud, the 
very earth-worm its tiny burrow in the soil, the snail carries 
his house upon his back. 

To house, therefore, is to do what those things do which have 
houses. But as living things only have houses, to house is to 
do what living things do ; that is to say, to perform the actions of 
living things-— in one word, to live — to have life — to move in 



TO BE. 253 

and out of a house as living things, and no things, but living 
things, do or can do. I say to be is exactly equivalent to our 
verb to live. It means to make use of a house and to perform 
other actions, after the manner of those things which have houses, 
viz. living things. The to denotes the something done, and the 
be, or the house, defines the nature of that something, by sug- 
gesting to the mind those particular actions which are already 
associated (in the memory) with the sound of those words. 

To be, therefore, in its purely primitive sense, signifies to 
perform the actions of living things ; and in strictness of pro- 
priety, those things only which have life can be said to be. But, 
by universal consent, and because we have other words which 
we now use in this exclusive sense, such as to live, its meaning 
has been extended so as to embrace also, the sense of the word 
to exist — which is, however, widely different — and traces of this 
difference are still preserved unconsciously by us in our manner 
of using these words, although we know not the reason of the 
distinction which we make. Thus we never apply the word 
being to a stock or a stone — but only to living things. The 
reason of this I shall now show you. 

The verb to exist is a Latin word transplanted into our 
language, and is equivalent to our verb to stand. But it is no 
more an English word than an African black would become an 
English man by being transplanted into an English hospital, 
and there having both his legs amputated. It is equivalent with 
our verb to stand, and since the two words mean the same thing, 
it is indifferent which we use ; but, being Englishmen, let us 
talk English. We dont want this word exist — we have an 
equivalent word in our own language — then why not use it ? 
Why should Englishmen talk Latin ? Why should they speak 
to each other in a foreign language which they do not under- 
stand ? There is no reason why they should speak in Latin — 
but there is an excellent reason why they should not, viz. 
because, not understanding the language in which they speak, 
they cannot, of course, understand each other. For instance, if 
this foreigner — this exotic word exist — had never been introduced 
■ — if we had always continued to use our own equivalent word 
stand — we should never have quarrelled about those mysterious 



254 TO BE. 

non-entities called existences, substances, &c. And I think, 
even now, we shall cease to quarrel if we will but take the 
trouble to remember that to exist is a Latin verb which we use 
instead of our own verb to stand ; and that when we say, iC does 
so and so exist V 9 we are talking Latin; and that, when we 
translate what we say into English, it will be, " does so and so 
stand ?" And that when we talk about existences, substances, 
&c. we are merely using Latin words which, being translated 
into English, signify things which stand. Our forefathers were 
satisfied to use their own language, and therefore always under- 
stood each other. Where we now say to exist, they said standan. 
And they also said standan where we now say to stand. 

But, as I have said, before, when men began to dispute and 
ask questions — when they began to become metaphysicians— 
when they ceased to be satisfied with the five instruments for the 
acquirement of knowledge wherewith God had provided them — - 
I mean the five senses — when they began to try to talk know- 
ledge into themselves — they soon became involved in numberless 
mysteries and contradictions, and their conversation became 
unintelligible to their hearers. This obliged the hearers to 
inquire after their meaning. And the speakers, not having a 
clear notion of the use and purposes of speech, and of the 
difference between words and things, thought they had satisfied 
the hearer's question, and given him a meaning, when they had 
only given him another word. And in order to reconcile real 
contradictions, they imagined subtile and unreal distinctions — 
imagining they had found a distinction in things, when they had 
only found a difference in words — or a different word. They 
attempted to explain things by words, which is absurdly 
impossible. Words can only explain words. Nothing can 
explain things but one or more of the animal senses. 

And the hearers were silenced by this mode of reasoning. 
They were silenced, because, being themselves equally ignorant 
of the true nature and use of words, and equally unable to give 
any better explanation, they had nothing to say in reply. But 
though silenced, they were not satisfied. And they were not 
satisfied because they still felt that they wanted something more, 
although they did not know what that something was which 



TO BE. 855 

they did want. And whenever any one ventured to say that he 
wanted something more, or that he was not satisfied, then the 
other triumphantly desired him to say what it was which he 
wanted more. But the other could not tell him, and therefore 
was once more silenced. But he still felt that he was not 
satisfied. And thus an angry and bitter feeling was engendered 
between the disputants. And the people, the lookers on, seeing 
that all these angry bickerings and bitter disputations ended in 
nothing but words whose meaning none could explain, got tired 
of such unsatisfactory discussion. And so metaphysics and 
metaphysicians fell into disrepute and entire neglect. And such 
metaphysics and such metaphysicians deserved nothing better. 

I have said men fancied (and they still fancy so) that they 
had found the meaning of a word, when they had only found 
another word meaning the same thing. Thus if you asked a 
man what he meant when he declared such and such a thing to 
be, he would tell you that to be meant to exist ; and having thus 
given you another word in exchange for the word be, he would 
fancy that he had satisfied your question. But to be and to 
exist (as ordinarily used) mean the same thing. What infor- 
mation, therefore, would you gain by having one word thus 
substituted for another ? You would have asked for the meaning 
of a word, and would only have gained another word — all he 
would have done would have been to exchange a word for a 
word, whereas you wanted him to exchange a word for the 
meaning of a word. This accounts for the introduction into 
language of so many foreign words. For since words have to 
do the duty — the double duty — of both words and meanings, it 
became necessary that there should be several words to signify 
one thing, in order that when a man was asked the meaning of 
a word, he might have another word meaning the same thing 
ready to give as the meaning of the word he used first. But 
his own language would, in most, if not in all instances, supply 
him with only one word for one thing. It was, therefore, 
necessary for him to go to other languages. And when he had 
found in another language a word equivalent with his own, he 
gave to all inquirers that word as the meaning of his own word, 
and expected them to be satisfied. And when he was desired 



£56 TO BE. 

to define what he meant by any one word, instead of defining 
what he meant by the word, he only defined the word itself. He 
defined the sign instead of defining the thing signified. He 
defined one word by another word, or by many other words. 
But things cannot be defined by words. They can only be 
defined by the art of the painter. 

Our word to stand, then, is exactly equivalent to the Anglo- 
Saxon word stand-an, and to the Latin word exist. But stand 
signifies a rock, and to stand (in the ordinary and limited use of 
the word) signifies to hold one's self erect as the rock does. 
But this is only its particular meaning. But to stand, when 
used as we now use the word to exist, and as our forefathers 
actually did use the word stand, has a general sense, although it 
still signifies to do what the rock does — viz. to occupy room in 
the universe after the manner of a rock, and all such things in 
general which, like the rock, are destitute of life, and not after 
the manner of the things which have houses, viz. living things. 
The word to, as usual, signifies something done, while the word 
stand (or exist) signifying a rock, suggests to the mind what 
that particular something is, viz. to occupy room, or a place, or 
space, in the universe, and nothing more. 

The sum of all this is that the verb to be signifies, to occupy a 
place in the universe after the manner of things which have 
houses. While to exist, or to stand, signifies to occupy a place 
in the universe after the manner of a rock, or any other 
unorganized mass of matter. 

The Anglo-Saxons had another word also signifying to be. 
It was wun-ian — and this word also signifies house — for it is 
made out of the word wun-enes, which means a house, a 
dwelling-place, a habitation. Our English word to won — that 
is, to dwell — is the same word. 

Wic-ian is another word equivalent with he ; and is also made 
out of a noun signifying a house. Wic is a house, and wic-ian 
(according to the Anglo-Saxon manner of making verbs) or 
to-wic (according to our manner of doing it) means to do as 
those things do which have habitations — that is, to dwell, to be, 
to inhabit— to occupy a place after the manner of those things 
which have wics— that is, houses. 



TO BE, 257 

B. 

It seems to me that any word which necessarily suggests to 
the mind actions which can only be performed by living beings 
would do as well as the word house. 

A. 

Exactly. And accordingly the Latin word signifying to be, 
viz. the word esse, does, in fact, signify to eat — and its force is 
to occupy a place in the universe after the manner of those 
things which eat, viz. living things. 

And so also any word which necessarily suggests to the mind 
the one sole act or fact of occupying place merely, without the 
ability to perform any living action of any kind, will do just as 
well as the Latin word exist, or the Anglo-Saxon standan. For 
the object of having two words at all — viz. standan and beon — 
that is, to occupy space after the manner of rocks, and to do the 
same thing after the manner of things which have houses — I 
say, the object merely is to distinguish between things which 
live, and things without life. Any other word, therefore, such 
as pebble or stock, made into a verb by prefixing to, would do 
just as well as to exist, or to stand. To pebble, or to stone, or 
to rock-stock-and-stone, would signify exactly what is signified 
by the verb to stand, when used in its general, and not in its 
particular sense. To rock-stock-and-stone would mean to occupy 
place after the manner of rocks, stocks, and stones, and not after 
the manner of things which have houses. 

When matter, therefore, ceases beon, to be, it then begins 
standan, to be. And when it ceases standan, to be, it then 
begins beon, to be. That is to say, when matter ceases beon, to 
occupy space after the manner of living things, it then begins 
standan, to occupy space after the manner of stocks and stones. 
And when the elements into which it was resolved when it 
ceased beon, to be, and began standan, to be, shall have been 
reorganized, and shall have been again made to form a part of 
living animals, then it begins, once more, beon, to be. 

"We will now proceed; and whenever we should otherwise 
have used any part of the verb to be, we will use the verb to 
house. And when we should otherwise have used the verb to 
exist, we will now use the verb to stand — always remembering 



258 TO BE. 

that we use it, not as we now most commonly do, in its 
particular sense, having a particular reference to that particular 
portion of unorganized matter which we call a rock — and 
signifying an erect position of the body like the uplifted and 
erect position of a rock — but, as our forefathers used it, in its 
general sense, and having a general reference to all sorts of 
things not having life. We will not use it to denote the 
occupation of space after the particular manner of a rock 
merely, but after the manner of rocks, stocks, and stones, and 
all such lifeless things. And you will find that these two verbs, 
to stand and to house, used in exactly the sense to which I have 
here referred, are capable, in every possible instance, of supplying 
the places of the verbs to exist and to be. You will find that I 
can ask the same questions and state the same propositions, by 
means of a rock and a house which you can by means of the 
words exists and is. And in doing this, you will soon discover 
what it is which has so mystified mankind in all their meta- 
physical discussions. 

It will not do to say that the meanings I have here asserted 
to belong to the words stand and be are arbitrarily attached to 
them by me. The meaning of these words, and the meaning of 
all words, do not depend upon my will, nor upon the will of any 
man— they are inherent in the words — that is, they stick to the 
words— that is, the meaning is associated in the mind with the 
word — and words will mean what they mean in spite of us — we 
cannot help ourselves — for the meanings of words depend upon 
the experience of our senses. When men discover a thing for 
the first time they give it a name, and thenceforward that name 
and that thing become associated in the minds of those men- 
linked — joined — the name and the thing cohere — stick together 
— and whenever those men hear that name pronounced, its 
meaning, that is to say, the thing which it names — the thing to 
which it points — to which it refers — will come into the mind — 
will be remembered — whether those men like it or not. 

If I utter the words live fish in your hearing, and so as to 
excite your attention, there will come into your mind, in spite of 
you, that thing which is associated in your mind with that 
name, and also those circumstances with which it is also asso- 



TO BE. 259 

ciated, and you will be compelled to remember, not only a fish 
simply, but a fish struggling on the bank or in the net, or 
swimming in the water. And if I utter the word swim, you 
cannot help remembering something which you have seen 
moving in or upon the water. It is not a matter of option what 
the word swim shall cause you to remember. It will mean 
what it does mean — it will cause you to remember what it does 
cause you to remember — because the memory has already caused 
the word and its meaning to become associated — linked together 
— and you cannot have the one without the other. 

But if, from lapse of time, or otherwise, that association 
should be destroyed — should its links be broken — should the 
cohesion between the word and thing be sundered, so that 
when the word is pronounced it has no meaning sticking to it, 
and causes nothing to be remembered — or if it be associated in 
one man's mind with one thing, and in another man's mind with 
another thing — so that when the word is pronounced it causes 
one man to remember one object, and another man another 
object — then, I say, it is perfectly self-manifest that that word 
has lost its power of fulfilling the office of words, and is, in fact, 
no longer anything but an insignificant sound, and a bone of 
contention among insignificant disputants — that is, disputants 
about words. 

B. 

But it is perfectly certain there is not one man in a hundred 
thousand who knows the meaning of the word to be, and yet all 
men use it, and, in the common concerns of life, understand one 
another perfectly. 

A. 

Every man knows what he himself means when he speaks — 
but the difficulty lies here — he does not know how to tell what 
he means — because the association between the meaning which 
is in him, and the words which were invented to express that 
meaning, has been, by time, destroyed and lost. Thus when 
you ask me, " what is sensation ?" there is a meaning in you — - 
that is to say, there is in you a want which you mean, that is, 
which you desire, to have satisfied. And you try to clothe this 
want which is in you — you try to express your meaning — in 



260 TO BE. 

words. But the words which you use are not associated in 
men's minds with any particular meaning of any kind — either 
in your mind or the mind of your hearers — how then can they 
render common to you and to others who hear yon, the meaning 
which is in you. In order to do this, the words must be asso- 
ciated in the minds of both hearer and speaker with one and the 
same meaning. Thus it happens that, even in common con- 
versation, we do, by our questions, ask for one species of 
knowledge, while, in fact, we desire quite another. It is this 
asking for one thing, while what we really want is quite another, 
which has so puzzled metaphysical reasoners. But I despair of 
making this clear to you otherwise than by illustrations. 

B. 

I think I have hit upon a mode of making you understand 
what sort of knowledge I desire with respect to sensation, when 
I say : " what is sensation V 3 

A. 

Say on. 

B. 

The other day I picked off the floor a very small scrap of 
printed paper, which I suppose to have been torn from the leaf 
of some novel. The only words which were left upon it were 
these : " having laid aside his yataghan, he then proceeded to" 
now I want to know what a yataghan is. It must be some- 
thing material because its possessor is said to have "laid it 
aside." But I have looked into two or three dictionaries in 
vain. Now whatever my meaning may be, and whether I know 
what it is myself or not, when I say, " what is sensation V I 
desire the same information with regard to sensation, as I do 
with regard to a yataghan, when I ask, u what is a yataghan V 3 

A. 

I will prove, to your own entire satisfaction, that you desire 
no such thing. You say, you desire to know what is a yataghan ; 
to which I reply that it is a kind of cciphos. Is your desire 
satisfied ? 

B. 

No— because I do not know what a xiphos is. What is a 
xiphos ? 



TO BE. 261 

A. 

I pray you to mark your own words : " because," say you, " I 
do not know what a xiphos is/" Now, then, I tell you that a 
xiphos is a kind of ensis. Is your desire yet satisfied ? 

B. 

No — because I do not know what an ensis is. What is an 



ensis 



A. 

An ensis, like a xiphos, is a kind of yataghan. Are you yet 
satisfied ? 

B. 

Of course not. 

A. 

Now- then I will satisfy you. A yataghan is a kind of 
sword. Now are you satisfied ? 

B. 

Perfectly. I now know what a yataghan is. 

A. " 

No, you don't. You only know what a yataghan is like — 
namely, an English sword. I say you do not know what a 
yataghan is. For, if a xiphos (a Greek sword) and an ensis (a 
Roman sword) and a yataghan (a Turkish sword) together with 
Dutch swords, English swords, cavalry swords, and dress swords, 
were all piled together on that table, you could not pick out the 
yataghan, and say, " this is the yataghan." 

Now, in answering your question, what did I do ? I only 
rang the changes upon several words, until, at last, I hit upon 
one which was associated in your mind with a meaning, that is, 
a thing, which is — not a yataghan — but something like unto a 
yataghan. And as soon as I had hit upon this word, you were 
perfectly satisfied. Your inquiry was after a word — not after 
the meaning of a word. All you wanted was the name of some- 
thing which you could remember, and which thing should be 
like that other thing which is denoted by the word yataghan. 
Your inquiry was after the name of a likeness — name of some- 
thing similar to a yataghan. You wanted a word, and I gave 
you a word, and you were satisfied. You were not satisfied 
with the words which I gave you first. And why ? You have 



TO BE. 

yourself answered the question : " because I do not know what 
a xiphos or an ensis is/' said you. No — because those words 
were not associated in your mind with any remembered thing. 
But as soon as I mentioned the word sword, which is associated 
in your memory with something which you have seen, and told 
you that a yataghan is a kind of sword — that is, of kin to a 
sword — that is, like a sword — then you were satisfied. And 
this, I say, proves beyond question, that what you wanted was a 
word which should be the name of something which you had 
known and remembered, and which remembered thing should 
also be of kin to — that is, like — the unknown thing after which 
you were asking. And this is always what we mean in all our 
ordinary questions. What is a gazelle ? it is a kind of deer. 
What is a stool ? it is a kind of chair without a back. What is 
an omnibus ? it is a kind of coach, &c. &c. That is, a thing 
like a deer — a thing like a chair — a thing like a coach. And 
this too is what your slovenly talkers and questioners mean 
when they ask you what is the meaning of a word. They do 
not want a meaning — all they want is another word — another 
ivord which shall be associated in their minds with some thing, 
which thing is like the thing spoken of. 

And this is all the answer which language can give— this is 
all the answer which can be given in words to any question. 
Words can only tell words. They cannot tell meanings. Words 
cannot tell things. 

But we have not yet quite done with the yataghan. Suppose 
when I have told you that yataghan is a Turkish instrument of 
war, like that which we denominate a sword, you reply to me 
that you did not want to know what a yataghan is like, but what 
a yataghan is. This is but reiterating the same question. For 
the words, lt what is a yataghan V\ will mean " what is a 
yataghan like," in spite of you — that is, if they mean anything 
at all. The meaning which is in you — the desire which you 
want to have satisfied, it is true, is now different. But you are 
endeavouring to express this altered want by the same form of 
words, only laying a little more stress on the word is-. You are 
now wanting one thing, and asking for another. At first, you 
only wanted your bank-note of a foreign country to be converted 



TO BE. 

into a bank-note of your own country. But, now, what you 
desire is, to have it converted into gold. That is, you desire 
things to be substituted for words. You are now no longer 
inquiring after words — after the names of similar things, but 
after the thing itself. You do not now want words, but the 
meanings of words. But it is quite clear that words cannot 
give you what you want. And it is the not understanding 
when we want words and when we want things, which has 
largely contributed to those endless disputes about matter, sen- 
sation, mind, time, death, right, being, essence, substance, 
entity, &c. &c. When a man said, "what is matter?" his 
hearer supposed he meant the same thing as though he had 
said, " what is an omnibus V 3 that is, the name of some other 
thing like matter ; and he tried to answer him accordingly — 
that is, by giving him names — other words meaning the same 
or a similar thing. And it is no wonder he could not satisfy 
either himself or the questioner, or the world; for matter has 
no similitude — no likeness— and therefore it was impossible to 
tell him the name of anything like it. But the question does 
not mean, in this instance, as he does when he says, " what is 
an omnibus V 3 — he does not now mean, " what is matter like ?■■? 
But he wants to know — not what matter is, but — matter itself. 
He wants now to know things — not to know the names of things. 
He now wants to know what no words can make him know. 
For, as I have said before, words can only make us know words 
— they cannot make us know things. The questioner wants an 
egg, and he who pretends to answer him, only offers him a stone. 
No wonder he is dissatisfied. But yet the one offers what he 
supposes the other asks for — and the other not knowing where 
the error lies — and not knowing how to frame his question so as 
to make the other understand what it is he really does want — it 
is surely no wonder that both should be mystified. And neither 
of them having the slightest idea that the whole mystery is 
merely a kind of verbal legerdemain — a trick of words — a verbal 
puzzle — easily enough understood when explained — it is no 
longer any wonder that they should both suppose that mystery 
to be a mystery of nature, which is, in fact, only a mystery of 
words. 



264t TO BE. 

But to return — you say you do not want to know what a 
yataghan is like, but what a yataghan is. 

B. 

Yes — we will suppose so. 

A. 

Then open that drawer, and you will know it — because you 
will see it. And I trust also you will henceforth know the 
difference between knowing a word, and knowing a thing — and 
likewise you will henceforth understand when you are inquiring 
after a thing, and when after the name of a thing. When you 
have seen that yataghan, you will then not only know the name 
yataghan, and the name of a thing resembling a yataghan, viz., 
a sword, but also the thing yataghan— not only the word, but 
the meaning of the word. 

If I say to you, "what is a teaspoon ?" you would reply, " it 
is that little silver instrument wherewith we stir our tea." But 
to this I should answer : " I did not ask you what are the pur- 
poses of a teaspoon, but what is a teaspoon ?" When you say a 
teaspoon is a " little silver instrument," you are only calling a 
teaspoon by another name. But I do not want a name, but the 
meaning of a name. I therefore repeat, " what is a teaspoon ?" 
Being thus pushed, all you can say is, that " a teaspoon is that 
which we call a teaspoon." But to this I reply : " I knew that 
before." The teaspoon was first represented by the word tea- 
spoon — then it was represented by the words c f silver instrument" 
— and now it is represented by the word that. But all these 
different names are only so many little napkins in which what I 
want to know is wrapped up. I do not want the napkin — I 
want that which is concealed in the napkin. You say, " a tea- 
spoon is that" — but what is that ? That is only a word. But 
what does that word represent ? To what does it point ? To 
what does the word that refer ? For whatever it is, that is what 
I want to know. 

B. 

The word that refers to thing. And means that thing. 

A. 

Thing ! But thing is only another word ! another napkin ! 



TO BE. 265 

But to what does this word thing refer ? What does this new 
napkin contain ? For that is what I want to know. 

B. 

The word thing refers to teaspoon — -that thing (whatever it 
is) which we call a teaspoon. 

A. 

To be sure it does ! And the thing teaspoon, and not any 
word or name, is what I want to know. Do you not perceive 
that what I crave to know, in this instance, is, not the name of a 
teaspoon, nor the name of anything which is of kin to, or like a 
teaspoon, but a teaspoon itself— that is, the thing called teaspoon 
— not the calling — but the thing called ! You cannot, there- 
fore^ tell me what a teaspoon is— -you can only show me. For 
you cannot tell me a thing. You can only tell me the name of a 
thing — which, in this instance, is not what I want to know. 

I shall now show you how much mystery and confusion have 
arisen solely from the words is and exists having lost their signi- 
fication — from their beiug no longer associated in our minds 
with things. And that had their meaning been preserved — had 
the cohesion between themselves and the things which they 
represent not been broken — much of this confusion would have 
been avoided. And further I shall show you that by re-associ- 
ating in our minds these and other words with the things which 
they indicate, we shall find no difficulty whatever in unravelling 
all the mystery of metaphysics ; and shall be as able to answer 
all metaphysical questions quite as satisfactorily as we can any 
other ordinary question whatsoever. And this is what Home 
Tooke promised to do. " If we shall have a tolerably lengthened 
twilight/' said he, " we may still perhaps find time enough for 
a farther conversation on the subject : and finally (if the times 
will bear it) to apply this system of language to all the different 
systems of metaphysical (that is, verbal) imposture." 

To stand, you remember, signifies to do what stocks, rocks, 
and stones do — that is, to occupy a place in the universe 
merely — that is, not after the manner of living things which 
move hither and thither-— but, at rest, after the manner of stocks 
and stones. 

You will also recollect that whenever we use the word stand 

v 



266 TO BE. 

we always preface the question by the word how, and not by the 
word what. Thus we say, " how do you stand affected by the 
late great bunkruptcy V 3 " But how does the case really 
stand V " How stands the question V 3 

Now if we had never ceased to use the word stand — or if, 
when we substituted the word exist in its place, we had still 
remembered that both words mean the same thing, viz., to 
occupy space after the manner of stones — in that case we should 
still have prefaced our questions by the word how. And instead 
of saying, "what is a yataghan?" and meaning, "by what 
other name is it called V 3 — or, " what is the name of some other 
thing known to me and resembling a yataghan V — we should 
have still said, ' ' how stands a yataghan V 3 and the word how 
being constantly used by all men in relation to manner, and the 
word stand being associated in the minds of all men with the 
idea of a rock, all men could not fail to perceive that the question 
really would mean : " after the manner of what rock, or stock, or 
stone, or other inorganic substance, does a yataghan do what 
the rock does — that is, occupy space V 3 And the questioner 
himself clearly understanding the meaning of the words he used 
would never think of asking this question with reference to sen- 
sation. Nor with reference to matter ; for since matter is a 
general term, signifying all the stocks and stones, and inorganic 
as well as organic substances in the world, it is self-evident that 
to ask this question with reference to matter would be absurd. 
Again, to say : " what stands mind V 3 assumes, not only that 
mind does stand in the universe after the manner of a rock, but 
also that there are other things standing in the universe with 
which mind can be compared. But as no man suppose this, so 
no man would ever ask this question with regard to mind. So, 
when men ask, " what is mind V 3 they also assume that mind 
is. And men do not see the impropriety of this assumption, 
because the word is is associated in their minds with no meaning, 
and therefore may be understood by the hearer to mean anything 
or nothing, just as he pleases. If he understand it in the sense 
of the verb to name, he will endeavour to answer the question by 
ringing the changes on all the various names by which mind is 
expressed, which process he will and can only conclude by saying 



TO BE. 267 

after all : " mind is that which we call mind." But all this 
trouble would have been spared him if the word stand had been 
used instead of the word is : and he would have answered at 
once, u mind does not stand at all — nor occupy space at all." 
If a man say, " what is a yataghan ?" his question is fully 
answered, if I reply, ( ' it is a sword." Because the word is, 
both in the question and answer does duty for the verb to call 
or to name. And if he repeat the question, and say, " what is 
a sword ?" his question is again fully answered, if I reply, " a 
yataghan." Because these questions only inquire after names. 
But though his question is answered, the man himself is not 
answered. Because although he does by his question inquire 
after names only, yet what he really wants are things, though 
he knows not how to express himself. He does not now want 
to know " what a yataghan is ;" but he wants to know a 
yataghan. He now wants to be informed of a yataghan — that 
is, to have put into him the form of a yataghan. — But words 
cannot do this — nothing can do this but a yataghan. Words 
may recall the memory of some form like the form of a yataghan ; 
but if you have never seen a yataghan, nothing can put its form 
into you but your own eyes and a yataghan. 

I trust I have not laboured this point until I have made it 
more obscure than it was before. Although I fear it will still 
be more or less obscure until the nature of such words as sensa- 
tion, mind, substance, essence, &c, together with the true office 
which they serve in speech, be explained to you. 

B. 

I think I understand you nevertheless. You mean to say 
that when we use the words, u what is so and so ?" the meaning 
which is in us (though we know it not) is a desire to know either 
another name for the same thing, or the name of some other 
thing which is like that after which we inquire. And that when 
the desired name is given (if there be one), and we still repeat 
the question, " what is ?" the meaning which is then in us has 
changed, and we are desiring a species of information through 
the medium of words which we can only obtain by the interven- 
tion of things, and from the revelation of our senses. And that 
confusion has arisen with regard to these questions and their 

v 2 



268 TO BE. 

proper answers, because the meaning which is in us is not the 
meaning which is in the words by which we seek to communicate 
that meaning. So that, in fact, we neither understand ourselves, 
nor can be understood by others. And thus it happens that we 
are perpetually inquiring after words when we want things — - 
and when we want things our hearers suppose we only want 
words. And further, that we often persist in inquiring after a 
thing, where there is no thing to be had, and he who answers us, 
(supposing we want words), having no thing to give us, still 
persists in offering us words, instead of things. And thus both 
parties are mystified. And you say that this could not have 
happened had the words stand and be continued in use in their 
legitimate sense; and you seem to think that, in that case, 
men would have been driven earlier to inquire into the true 
office of words, 

A. ■ 
I think so. For when they found that they could not say, 
" what stands or what houses sensation ?"■ — when they found 
that they could not say of sensation that it has any existence — 
when they found themselves obliged to confess that it has no 
existence in the universe — that it has neither standing nor 
house — I think they would have been led to consider what 
purpose of speech such words answer. I think they would 
have been compelled to say to themselves : " if sensation have 
no existence, what do I mean when I use the word sensation in 
this or that particular sentence?" And thus I think they 
would have detected the fallacy which has so long puzzled 
mankind. 

B. 

You have said that you can ask any question by means of the 
words stand and house as well as I can by means of the word is, 
and that questions so asked will be always intelligible ; or that, 
if the question be absurd, its absurdity will appear upon the face 
of it, 

A. 
Yes—I do, 

B. 
Can you say, " what stands or what houses the meaning of a 



TO BE. 269 

word V instead of saying, " what is the meaning of a word ?" 

A. 

Yes, indeed can I. And if the question had always been 
asked by means of these words, words and the meanings of 
words would never have been, I think, confounded together. 

B. 

Tell me, then, " what houses the meaning of the word yata- 
ghan." 

A. 

It does not house at all— because it does not occupy a place 
in the universe after the manner of those things which have 
houses. 

B. 

How or what stands the meaning of the word yataghan, 
then? 

A. 

It stands — that is, does what the rock does — that is, occu- 
pies a place in that part of the universe called Turkey, after the 
manner in which a sword occupies a place in that part of the 
universe called England. 

" What or how houses the meaning of the word lion ?" " The 
meaning of the word lion houses after the manner of tigers and 
leopards and other eastern beasts of prey." For the meanings 
of the words lion and yataghan, are the lion and the yataghan 
themselves. But if I say, "how houses or stands the meaning 
of the word sensation?" every one sees the absurdity of the 
question instantly. 

B. 

Oh ! but this manner of speaking would never do at all. 
Suppose a foreigner were to ask me the meaning of the word 
lion, and I were to say, " the meaning of the word lion houses 
after the manner of tigers and leopards and other eastern beasts 
of prey" — how much would he be the wiser ? 

A. 

Not at all — and what can prove more forcibly than this that 
his question only related to names ? The foreigner would sup- 
pose that he already knew the thing lion, but that it was 
associated in his mind with some other name— and all he would 



270 TO BE. 

want would be to hear that name mentioned which had the 
power to cause him to remember the thing. All he wants, 
therefore, is the verbal meaning of the word lion. He wants to 
have a translation of the word — he wants to have another word 
substituted for the word lion — because he supposes that he 
already knows the thing lion. But suppose he did not know 
the thing lion— suppose there were indeed in the universe no 
such thing as lion — how much wiser would he then be for having 
the changes rung upon the name lion ? If he were told that 
there was no such thing as lion, he would then naturally in- 
quire how the word came to be admitted into the language, and 
what was its use. And had such a question been asked with 
regard to such words as sensation, it had probably been answered 
long before now. But all mankind acknowledge that they 
know not what mind is, or what sensation is. Yet they run up 
and down the market-place inquiring of each other, " what is 
mind V And one man calls it by one name and another by 
another. My Lord Brougham calls it, ct something which does 
something." They are supposed to inquire after names, and 
they get names, but still are not satisfied. No — because here, 
unlike the foreigner, they want the thing. But the thing is 
nowhere to be found. And the first question should be, " is 
there such a thing as mind V 

B. 

What is meant when I say, " what is the meaning of the 
word sensation V 

A. 

It is quite evident that your meaning is, what does the word 
sensation signify ?" To which I reply, it is the sign of the fol- 
lowing words : " that which one feels." And if you ask me to 
what the word that refers, I rap your knuckles with this ruler, 
and you are answered. 

The fact is, every word has two meanings — a verbal meaning, 
and a meaning in nature. The verbal meaning is merely some 
other word or words signifying the same thing ; or some other 
thing resembling it. 

The meaning in nature is some thing or things capable of 
affecting us through the medium of the senses. 



TO BE. 271 

The verbal meaning may be told. The meaning in nature 
must always be a revelation of our senses. 

If the verbal meaning does not direct us to the meaning in 
nature, then the verbal meaning is manifestly nothing more than 
a vox et prseterea nihil — a mere idle and unmeaning noise. 

What is flint ? A flint is that mass of matter which chemists 
call silica, and which we call flint. But this is only the verbal 
meaning of the word flint ; and which, were there no meaning 
in nature — that is, were there no such thing as a flint — would 
be mere empty noise signifying nothing. But if you want to 
know what I mean by that mass of matter, &c. &c. — if you 
require to know the meaning of the word that — I refer you to 
your sense of seeing and feeling for your answer. For you are 
now inquiring after the meaning in nature, which inquiry 
nothing can answer but a revelation of your own senses. In 
like manner you ask me, " what is sensation ?" I reply, " the 
verbal meaning is, that which one feels." If you inquire after 
the meaning in nature — after the meaning which, is wrapped up 
in the napkin that — I then rap your knuckles with the ruler, 
and tell you again that it is that which you felt — and if you 
now ask me for the meaning of the word that-— if you ask me 
what that is which you felt — I answer : " the ruler." 

I have already given you the verbal meaning of the word mind. 
Its verbal meaning is : u that which is remembered." But a 
word with only a verbal meaning is but an idle breath. What 
then is the meaning in nature of the word mind ? 

B. 

Ay — that's coming to the point. When you say mind sig- 
nifies " that which is remembered," what is the thing which is 
concealed in the napkin that ? 

A. 

But mind, you know, is a general term, and does not signify 
any one particular remembered thing, but all the things which 
men can remember. I cannot therefore tell you to what the 
word that refers unless you tell me the name of the thing which 
you remember. Suppose you were to say to me : " I have 
been to see a magnificent sight to-day" — and were then to 
ask me the meaning in nature of that word sight, I could 



272 TO BE. 

not tell you. But if you inform me what you have been to see 
— if you have been to see a cathedral — then the meaning in 
nature of that word sight, in that particular sentence, is a 
cathedral. While you were looking at it, it was a cathedral 
seen — after you had left it, it was a cathedral remembered. And 
a cathedral remembered forms part of your mind. The word 
mind, therefore, may sometimes signify a cathedral. 

When I am looking at that lamp, that lamp is what we call a 
sight. But I am not one thing, and the lamp one thing, and 
the sight a third thing ! No. If, while looking at that lamp, 
I say, I see a sight — the word sight signifies a lamp. But 
what lamp? not the lamp which stands on your table at home — - 
nor any other lamp, but the lamp which I see. But it signifies 
" something more" than simply a lamp— it defines the par- 
ticular relation existing between me and the lamp— it defines 
the particular effect produced on my organs by it — it defines 
the particular sense by which that lamp reveals itself to me. It 
signifies a lamp — but not only a lamp, but a lamp which I see. 
For the word sight signifies that (something, anything,) which 
is seen. In this instance that which is seen is a lamp. Here, 
therefore, the word sight signifies a lamp — which is seen. 

But when it has been removed from the room, then it is no 
longer a sight, but a remembrance- — that is, a thing which I 
myn — that is, which I remember. It is now a remembered 
thing — a myned, or myn'd, or min'd thing. But what thing is 
that which is myned, or mui'd, by me? A lamp. Here, 
then, the word nmVd signifies a lamp. But not a lamp 
merely— but a lamp which I myn, or which is myned, or myn'd 
or mind by me. The word mind defines the relation between 
me and the lamp. It tells you that the lamp to which it alludes 
is a lamp which I have seen, but which I see no longer, but only 
remember. 

The word sight signified a seen lamp — the word mind signifies 
here a lamp unseen, but remembered. But they both (sight and 
mind) signify a lamp. 

Now here is a third lamp which I hold in my hand. There are 
now three lamps. The one in my hand is a felt lamp — that before 
me is a seen lamp — that in the other room is a myned, mynM, 



TO BE, 273 

or mind, that is, remembered, lamp. The one is a feeling or 
sensation — the other is a sight — the third is a mind. That is 
to say, the one is a something felt, the other is a something 
seen, the third is a something myned, myn'd, mind, or remem- 
bered. But what is this something ? A lamp. Feeling, sight, 
and mind, therefore, in this instance, all signify a lamp. But 
each word defines (over and above) the particular sense by which 
each lamp manifests itself to me. But they all signify a lamp. 

Now, suppose there were nothing in the world but lamps. 
Then those lamps might very properly be called my sight, my 
spectacle, or my exhibition — that is, the things seen by me, or 
exhibiting themselves to me. Now, suppose I am suddenly 
stricken blind, then all these lamps constitute my mind— that 
is, my myned or my remembered things — in a word, my mind. 
Suppose, for a moment, that there is nothing in the universe 
which I have not seen, felt, heard, tasted, or smelled. Then all 
the world is my mind. 

Suppose I had but one sense, viz., the sense of seeing. And 
suppose this one sense of seeing was so constituted that I could 
see nothing but the sun. Then, I say, the sun, when my eyes 
were shut, would be my mind — that is to say, my remembered 
thing. 

Here are two legs of lamb — one is a leg of lamb roasted — the 
other is a leg of lamb boiled — but they are both legs of lamb 
seen. But to-morrow they will not be legs of lamb seen, but 
legs of lamb myned, myn'd, mind, or remembered. 

B. 

Mind, therefore, in fact, signifies matter. 

A. 

Certainly it does — but not all matter — but only such portions 
of matter as have been seen, felt, heard, tasted, or smelled, and 
which have not been forgotten. Mind is, in a word, unforgotten 
matter — that is myn'd or remembered matter As the word 
sight defines the particular relation between us and the thing 
(that portion of matter) spoken of, so the word mind defines the 
relation between us and the thing (that portion of matter) 
spoken of. The one informs us that the thing is a thing seen — 
the other a thing remembered. The word gift is a similar word, 



274 TO BE. 

The word gift means a thing given. It means a thing — -but 
what thing we cannot tell until we hear its name. But we do 
know, by means of this word gift, what is the relation which 
exists between that thing, let it be what it may, and the person 
spoken of as its receiver, and the person spoken of as the giver. 
We know that it has passed from the one to the other — that it 
has changed hands as we sometimes say. 

When the word myned had lost, by contraction, its participial 
termination ed 3 and had become first myn'd and then mynd, and 
finally mind, it then became a collective noun, like the noun 
multitude, and was soon erected into a verb by the addition of 
the word to. And having thus become a verb, it was treated 
like any other verb, and had, of course, its participles like other 
verbs. Thus, where our forefathers said myned, we now say 
minded — and where our forefathers said blined, we now say 
blinded. But blind and blinded— mind and minded — are only 
different forms of the same words, and mean the same thing. 
Mind, therefore, is minded — that is, remembered. But minded 
what ? Remembered what ? Answer : any kind, some kind, 
of matter — not forgotten matter — -nor seen matter — nor felt 
matter — but minded or remembered matter. 

If you ask, therefore, what is my mind, I draw upon paper all 
the objects which I can remember to have seen, heard, felt, 
tasted, smelled — and showing it to you, I say, " that is an exact 
representation of my mind." 

When the word mind had lost its participial character, and 
became used as a noun, that is, a name — all names having been 
declared by the learned to be the signs of ideas — men naturally 
enough supposed that this word mind (and others in the like 
predicament) must therefore be the sign of an idea. And then 
people began to talk of the idea of mind — idea of power — idea 
of substance, &c. But these ideas, answering to these names, 
could nowhere be found. No matter — they must be somewhere 
— and why must they be somewhere ? — only because some one 
had said (I believe it was Aristotle who first said it — one of the 
Spectator's ancient philosophers) that words are the signs of 
ideas. So, not being able to find these ideas, but still firmly 
believing they must exist somewhere, and by way of distinguish- 



TO BE. 275 

ing these ideas which could not be found from those other every- 
day sort of ideas which could be found whenever they were 
wanted,, they proceeded to call those ideas which could nowhere 
be found — what think you ? what think you they called them ? 
Why, abstract ideas — that is, ideas which have been taken 
away — abstracted— stolen — lost — gone— in plain English, no- 



When the scholiast asked his pupil of what idea power was 
the sign, the pupil looked about him in order to discover it. 
But not being able to find it, he declared the fact — "non est 
inventa," said he — and, " therefore, the idea of power is a lost, 
stolen, or strayed, or in other words, abstracted idea — and the 
word power is the sign of an abstract idea" — that is, of an idea 
nowhere to be found. And the pedagogue thereupon patted his 
pupil on the head, called him a good boy, and declared to his 
friends that he had made wonderful progress in learning. 

Doth it not seem inconceivable that reasoning men should 
have been satisfied with this absurd phrase, " abstract idea," as 
an explanation of the meaning of the word power; and that 
these two senseless words should have been able to set men 
quarrelling like tigers — no, not like tigers — for there is no 
animal but man foolish enough to quarrel about nothing — which 
is the true rendering of the words " abstract ideas" — but like 
madmen. 

The reason however is plain enough. Had they asked them- 
selves what was signified by the word abstract, they would have 
discovered that they were only using a Latin word which, when 
translated into that which it stands for in English } signifies some- 
thing taken away — and is wholly incapable of signifying any- 
thing else. 

People sometimes say, when pressed to tell the meaning of 
their words, "that they "know very well what they mean 
themselves, and that is sufficient." But that is not sufficient. 
For they might as well bark like a dog, or mew like a cat, 
or crow like a dunghill cock, unless the sounds which they 
utter not only have a meaning within the breasts of those who 
utter them, but are also capable of putting that meaning into 
the breasts of those who hear them. 



276 TO BE. 

I say had they asked themselves the meaning of the words 
they used, they would have found out that when they talked of 
abstract ideas, they were, in fact, only talking about token-away 
ideas— the single difference being that they spoke in Latin and 
Greek instead of speaking in the English language. And it 
could not but have occurred to them that it can make no pos- 
sible difference, as to the thing spoken of, whether it be spoken 
of in one language or another. 

An abstract idea is a taken-away idea ; and a taken-away idea 
is an abstract idea. The words which are spoken are different, 
but the thing spoken of is the same, call it by what name you 
will. 

Had they thus consulted themselves as to the meaning of the 
words they used, they could not have failed to see that a taken- 
away idea is, in fact and reality, no idea at all. It is a non- 
idea. For when the thing signified is taken away, it is quite 
manifest that the sign becomes the sign of nothing. When the 
idea, that is, the thing signified, is taken away, abstracted, or 
lost, surely nothing can be more self-evident than that the word, 
that is the sign, is no longer the sign of anything. 

But besides this, when they talk of abstract, that is, taken- 
away ideas, they do not mean that these ideas once really 
existed, although now lost, abstracted, or taken away. But 
they mean that they are a sort of idea which never did exist 
otherwise than as they fancy they exist now— that is, not at all 
— or, in other words, after the manner of things which have 
been abstracted, taken away, or destroyed. In this sense, 
therefore, (which is undoubtedly the sense in which the phrase 
is used) a taken-away idea is, to all intents and purposes, 
exactly equivalent to a non-idea, if I may be allowed to coin a 
word which is as good, at all events, as the word non-resistance. 

But to return. Having made the participle myned, myn'd, 
mynd, or (as at present spelled) mind, into a noun, that is, a 
name, they next proceeded to endow this name with the power 
of action, by adding to it the word to. 

By these several processes of language (which we are per- 
forming almost every hour in the day, with regard to all sorts 
of words) the Anglo-Saxon word mynan became altered into 



TO BE. 277 

to-myn ; and the past participle of to-mijn, viz. myned, into, first 
a noun, viz. mind, and then a verb, viz. to mind. And the 
place of the old participle myned has been supplied by the new 
participle minded, 

A similar trick has been played with the word long. Long is 
only the past participle of lengian, to stretch out. And because 
when we desire to possess a thing which is scarcely within our 
reach, we stretch ourselves out in order to get at it, as for 
instance, an apple on the bough, or a flower growing in a ditch, 
we have clapped the word to before the past participle long, and 
so manufactured the verb to long — which signifies figuratively 
to do what they do who stretch themselves out after a thing — 
viz. to desire to possess something. 

And thus, out of the past participle of an Anglo-Saxon verb, 
we have made a modern verb which in reality signifies pre- 
cisely the same thing as the Anglo-Saxon word from which it 
was derived. And having made a new verb, we have also, as a 
matter of course, made a new participle to it, according to the 
analogy observed in such verbal processes. Thus, as the modern 
verb to long is synonymous, in its literal sense, with the old 
verb lengian, so the modern past tense and past participle longed 
is synonymous with the old past participle long. 

And thus also the modern verb to mind is synonymous with 
the Anglo-Saxon verb mynan, to remember. And the modern 
past participle minded is synonymous with the old past participle 
myned, myn'd, mynd, mind. 

But through all these mutations in the form of the word its 
true meaning has still clung to it. Thus, in Scotland, to mind 
is constantly used in the sense of to remember. So it is in 
many parts of England, especially Cornwall.* 

* I have just received the following letter, for which I am greatly obliged 

to the writer. 

St. Columb, 4th May, 1841. 
Sir, 
In this neighbourhood the word mind is frequently used by the lower classes 
instead of the word remember; as, 'I can mind when Mr. So and So was 
born 3 ; ' I can mind when he was buried.' — In fact the use of the word in this 
sense is very common in Cornwall. 

To Mr. E. Johnson, W. 

Nelson Square, London. 



278 TO BE. 

Indeed all men, not excepting my Lord Brougham himself, 
constantly use the word in this its only possible meaning. Does 
not my Lord Brougham sometimes say to his secretary : " mind 
you put me in mind that I do so and so V 9 And does he not 
then mean : " remember that you cause me to remember, or, put 
into my memory, that I do so and so V 9 Does he not mean : 
Ci there is a particular thing which is now to me a remembered 
thing. But should it become to me a forgotten thing, have the 
goodness to make it once more a remembered thing V 3 

Sometimes, however, we use the word in senses which are 
arbitrary. We say : " I have a great mind to do so and so" — 
meaning a strong inclination or desire. The sense of the 
word mind is here guessed at, because no other sense than that 
of inclination or desire would render the sentence intelligible. 

Almost all our ordinary conversation is made up of mere 
hints and inuendos, at the meaning of which the hearers 
guess. Thus we can frequently guess at what a man is going to 
say before he has half finished the sentence. 

We also use the word memory when the word mind would 
express our meaning as well — thus, unconsciously, making the 
two words synonymous, as, in truth they are. We engrave 
on tombstones the words, "in memory of." What do these 
words mean? They mean that that stone is intended to put 
the passers-by in mind of the departed — or to re-mind them of 
him — or, to put him again into their minds or memories — that 
he may not cease to be one of their pack of myned, minded, or 
remembered things- — that he may not become a forgotten thing. 

I have said that, having first made the participle myned into 
a name or noun, to denote the totality of remembered things, 
they then proceeded to endow it with action, by means of the 
little word to — thus making it into a verb. Then they argued 
thus : " Here is a verb which signifiies to do something. But 
there can be nothing done without a doer. As the verb to mind, 
therefore, signifies to do something, the noun mind must be the 
name of the doer. Here is an operation called minding, think- 
ing, reasoning, or reflecting — there must therefore be a some- 
body or something to perform that operation — that somebody or 
something we call mind 33 



TO BE. 279 

This is the reasoning of my Lord Brougham. But if this 
reasoning be correct I can manufacture these " somebodies or 
somethings" by the dozen. If there must be an active agent, a 
separate being, an operating and performing somebody or some- 
thing in order to perform these extraordinary operations, I say I 
can make them at pleasure. I can create these wonderful beings 
at will. 

Here is a book. I put the word to before the word, and thus 
erect the noun into a verb. " Now," says my Lord Brougham, 
"here is a verb which signifies to do something — to perform 
that operation which we call booking — not any fraction of mat- 
ter — (mind that) but an active, separate, booking, somebody 

or something — which somebody or something we call 

what ? Let my Lord Brougham answer the question. 

Look here again. We have a verb to resist. To resist sig- 
nifies to do something, viz. to perform that particular operation 
called resisting ; therefore there must be " somebody or some- 
thing" to perform this operation — that "somebody or some- 
thing we call resistance. 

"Well — be it so — let us suppose that the word resistance does 
imply some active separate agent. But what in the world shall 
we do with the word non-resistance ? which has become as 
common almost as the word resistance. This legerdemain — 
this trick of language — often makes even this word non-re- 
sistance an agent whose business is to perform operations. 
" I pursued my enemy with the full intention of destroying him. 
But when I had overtaken him, and found him at my mercy, 
his non-resistance compelled me to spare him. Had he resisted, 
I had certainly killed him." 

Here is an operation performed — the operation of compelling 

me to spare — and this operation was performed by what ? 

Not that separate, active, performing agent, called resistance, 
but that other separate, active, performing agent, called non- 
resistance ! 

Here are two operations performed — " not by any fraction of 
matter" — but, in the one case, by that separate, doing, perform- 
ing agent which we call resistance ; and in the other, by that 
non-doing, non-performing agent, which we call non-resistance ! 



£80 TO BE. 

B. 

But matter, you know, wholly independent of anything else, 
can perform the operation of resisting. And, therefore, in this 
instance, it is not necessary to suppose any other agent. 

A. 

But can matter also perform the other operation of non-re- 
sistance ? 

B. 

No— certainly not. 

A. 

Here is a cat. No man dare deny that a cat can remember- 
No man who has seen the cat starting off for the hall-door the 
instant she hears the voice of the cat's-meat-man, dare or can 
deny that a cat can remember. 

Here again is an operation performed — the operation of re- 
membering. But since matter cannot perform the operation of 
remembering, there must be " somebody or something — not 
any fraction of matter"- — to perform this operation for the cat. 
And " that somebody or something we call" memory. 

For memory is surely as necessary to perform the operation 
of remembering, as mind is to perform the operation of 
thinking. 

Here then we have another of these independent, separate, 
immaterial agents. 

But a cat can reason as incontestably as Sir Isaac Newton 
could reason. A servant of mine filled an egg-cup about half 
full of milk, and placed it on the floor for the cat. She could 
not, however, get her muzzle far enough into the cup to reach 
the milk. She immediately raised one of her paws, dipped it 
into the milk, and then licked it off her paw, repeating the ope- 
ration until the milk was exhausted, standing on the three legs 
the whole time. And the readiness, and orderliness, and gra- 
vity with which she did it were exceedingly amusing. 

It is impossible to deny that all this was a process of reason- 
ing as regular and consequential as any algebraical process what- 
ever. But, says Lord Brougham: "matter cannot reason — there- 
fore there must be a somebody or something to reason, infer, 
conclude, believe, not any fraction of matter- — but a reasoning, 



TO THINK. 281 

inferring, concluding, believing being — that somebody or some- 
thing we call mind." But whether matter can reason, infer, con- 
clude, believe, or not, it is quite certain the cat that emptied the 
egg-cup by means of her paw could do all four — and therefore 
that there must have resided in that cat, according to Lord 
Brougham, a "separate being — not any fraction of matter" — but 
wholly independent of her material self and her " sensations" — 
in order to perform these operations for her. And this somebody 
or something we call, I suppose, cat's-mind. Who does not 
see that all this is but a repetition of the jargon of the Spec- 
tator's ancient philosophers about life — which they embodied 
and personified in the same manner as we have embodied and 
personified mind. Mutato nomine it is but a re-enactment of 
the old farce. 

" I am going," says the soldier, " to pipe-clay my gloves." 
But matter cannot perform the operation of pipe-claying, nor 
any other operation whatever ; for matter is inert. There must 
therefore be another independent, separate, immaterial agent, 
especially made and provided for the sole purpose of pipe-clay- 
ing gloves — an acting, performing, pipe-claying being. 

At this rate every insect and every reptile, every flea and 
every earth-worm, spider, and gnat — nay, every one of those 
little animalcules which disport themselves by hundreds in a 
single drop of ditch-water, must also be, every one of them, 
attended by a separate, independent, performing being— not 
any fraction of matter — but wholly independent of matter and 
its sensations — which independent, performing being is neces- 
sary to perform all their actions for them ; because matter of 
itself can perform nothing. 

If such words as resistance, blackness, whiteness, &c. be the 
signs of abstract ideas, then I can manufacture these abstract 
ideas by the score. I will perform the operation of making an 
abstract idea at once, in order to show you a sample of this 
species of manufacture. " The palm of a labouring man's 
hand is extremely horny— and this horniness of hand must, I 
should think, &c." The word horniness which I have here 
coined, and which is as good and intelligible a word as any in 
the English language, and whose formation is perfectly ana- 

x 



2S& TO THINK. 

logous with the formation of other similar words, such as white- 
ness, weakness, emptiness, &c. is as incontestably the sign of an 
abstract idea as whiteness, or emptiness. But, until I coined it, 
there was no such word — and therefore no such abstract idea as 
that represented by it. By making the word, therefore, I have 
also made the abstract idea denoted by it. And those who in 
like manner made the words whiteness, weakness, emptiness, 
made also the abstract ideas represented by them. In order to 
make an abstract idea, all you have to do is to tack the word 
ness to the end of almost any adjective in the language — and 
the word beautifulness is just as good a word as beauty. At 
this rate, to make a new word is to make a new abstract idea. 
And so it is. For an abstract idea is a no-idea— and to make 
new words is certainly to make new no-ideas — that is — no new 
ideas. 

But this is not all. For the method of reasoning of my Lord 
Brougham and others of his school, will make it absolutely 
necessary to provide an independent, separate, immaterial, per- 
forming being in order to perform the operations of growing 
and flowering for every plant, tree, shrub, weed and flower in 
the universe. For as matter cannot perform any operation what- 
ever, it cannot of course perform the very complicated actions 
of growing, blooming, &c. &c. But as to grow long and to grow 
short are two very different operations, we must have one inde- 
pendent being to perform the operation of growing long, and 
another to perform the operation of growing short — and, I 
suppose, two others to perform the exceedingly different ope- 
rations of growing rich and growing poor. 

But if my Lord Brougham once admit that matter — wholly 
of itself — and altogether without the intervention of any second 
being whatever — can perform any operation whatever — say, for 
instance, the operation of remembering, or willing, or desiring — 
then there is clearly no longer any necessity to suppose a second 
and separate being in order to account for the operation of 
thinking. For if it can perform the operation of remembering, 
why not also the operation of thinking ? 

But neither is this all. For man is not only a thinking 
being— but he is also a looking being— a tasting, smelling, 



TO THINK. 283 

hearing and feeling being. But as matter can neither look, 
hear, feel, taste, nor smell, every man must also be provided with 
five separate, independent, immaterial existences in order to 
perform, for man, the operations of looking, feeling, hearing, 
tasting, and smelling — not any fraction of matter — and wholly 
independent and separate from his sensations — but five looking, 
hearing, feeling, tasting, smelling beings— which five separate* 

independent beings we call : they have not yet been 

christened. 

Now let us inquire a little into the nature of some of these 
extraordinary operations. 

They are all mere tricks of language. 

"We often say to a child : " take care you do not let that glass 
fall — if you do it will break" But we do not mean that the 
operation of breaking will be performed by the glass, but upon 
the glass, by whatever object it falls against. We say that the 
glass will produce a certain effect, which effect we call fracture, 
— but we mean that this effect will be produced by some other 
body upon the glass. And it is precisely the same when we 
speak of the operations of the senses. It is not man, nor a 
man's eye, that performs the operation of looking. All a man 
himself can do is to place himself in a convenient position for 
allowing any object to produce the necessary effect upon his eyes. 
He can open his eye-lids, and turn himself toward the object — 
and this is all. When he has so done, he can no more help 
seeing (as we call it) than he can help falling when that which 
supported him is struck from beneath him. The act of seeing is 
not performed by the eye, but upon the eye by the object seen. 
It is not the eye which produces any effect upon the object, but 
it is the object which produces an effect upon the eye. In the 
act of seeing, the eye is as absolutely passive as the lenses in a 
microscope. It is not, therefore, we who discover or reveal 
objects, but it is objects which discover or reveal themselves to 
us. The object is the agent, and the eye the patient ; and what 
we call seeing is the effect produced upon the patient by that 
agent. 

All this is, if possible, still more manifest in what is called 
the act of hearing. It is not we who perform the operation of 

x 2 



284 TO THINK. 

hearing. Hearing is not any act performed by the ear, or by 
the nerves of hearing, but it is the name which we give to that 
effect which is produced upon those nerves by the vibrations 
of the air. 

So, again, it is not we who perform the operation of feeling. 
But feeling is the name which we give to those effects which 
are produced (chiefly) upon our skin, by objects brought into 
contact with it. Feeling is an effect produced upon, and not an 
operation performed by, the skin. The word feel is nothing but 
the old English word /<?//, which signified skin, and is still pre- 
served in the word fell -monger. 

To feel, therefore, is only to skin any object. That is, to 
place it in contact with the skin. And to bring the two into 
contact is all that we can do. When in contact, the object 
produces an effect upon the nerves of our skin. And as we give 
the name of fracture, in ordinary language, in order to distin- 
guish that particular effect which has been produced when a thing 
has been broken, from other and different effects ; so feeling is 
the name which we give to those various effects produced upon 
the nerves of the skin by external bodies. The skin of a healthy 
man in contact with nothing but the air, has a particular and 
definite mode of existence peculiar to itself. And it bears a 
particular and definite relation to all other matters in the 
universe. And the various heterogeneous parts whereof the 
skin is composed bear a definite and particular relation to each 
other. But when a body has been brought into contact with it, 
that particular and definite mode of existence is, for the time 
being, changed — and the former definite relation existing 
between its several component parts is altered. It existed 
before after the manner of skin in contact with air only. Now 
it exists after the manner of skin in contact with some other 
body. There is a something now which is doing something 
to the skin — altering its former relations, internal and external, 
and that alteration in its relations — in its mode of existing — we 
call feeling. 

B. 

But will this mode of reasoning account for the internal feel- 
ings ? — hunger, thirst, &c. &c. 



TO THINK. 285 

A. 

Perfectly. Man is not a mass of homogeneous, but of hete- 
rogeneous matter. And the heterogeneous parts, of which the 
whole is composed, are in constant motion; and the relations 
which each bears to each are perpetually changing; and the 
effects, therefore, which each produces upon each are un- 
ceasingly varying. Thus, when a man has fasted long, the 
relations between the internal and heterogeneous parts are 
no longer the same as they were before he had so fasted. And 
the effects produced by each upon each are no longer the same. 
And hunger is the name which we give to the new effects 
produced. 

The conditions and internal relations according to which a 
full man exists, are not the same conditions and relations 
according to which a hungry man exists. And the new and 
altered conditions and relations are effects which have been 
produced upon his organs by the several processes called ab- 
sorption, secretion, &c. And to this new condition of existence 
we give the name of hunger. 

But I shall have occasion to recur to this when I come to the 
word pain. 

Again : it is not we who perform the operation of tasting. 
All we can do toward it is to bring sapid bodies into contact 
with the tongue. That is, (as in the case of seeing) to put our 
organs into a convenient position for allowing sapid objects to 
produce their natural effects upon them. To change the ordi- 
nary and general relation between some body and ourselves, and 
to establish a new relation between them ; so that a new effect 
may be produced upon us. To that new effect, produced by 
change of relation, we give the name of taste. 

While the relation between us and a piece of sugar is that 
which we call distance, that piece of sugar produces upon us that 
single effect which we call seeing, provided that we have, by 
raising the eyelids and turning our face towards it, .put the body 
into a convenient position to be affected by it after that par- 
ticular manner. 

But if we substitute that relation called contact for that other 
relation called distance, then this new relation enables the 
object to produce a new effect upon us. 



286 TO THINK. 

This new effect we call feeling. If we change the relation 
once more, by putting it within the cavity of the mouth, we then 
enable that object to produce a third effect upon us. 

This third effect we call taste. 

It is the same with smelling. Smelling is not an operation 
performed by us, but by odoriferous bodies upon us. And we 
can have all these effects produced upon us without our con- 
sent. 

The universe is made up of an infinite number of different 
combinations of matter—each existing after a manner peculiar 
to itself, and standing in a definite relation to all other exist- 
ences. And to these various masses of matter we have given 
names general and particular. But these several masses of 
matter, including ourselves, are constantly producing effects one 
upon the other. The particular relation of each of them, to 
other things, is perpetually altered, and its manner of existing 
changed. And it was soon found necessary, not only to give 
names to things as they exist at any one given time, but also to 
give them different names to denote that their mode of existence 
had been changed, and new relations established. Thus mortar 
is but another name for lime, sand, and water— house, for mor- 
tar, bricks, wood, glass, iron, &c, existing according to a new 
set of relations. Thus the word glass is the name of a particular 
thing existing according to its ordinary and intended relations. 
But the words broken glass are the name of that same thing 
existing now according to a new set of relations. The relation 
which formerly existed between it and the stone which broke it, 
has been altered from that relation called distance, to that other 
relation called contact. And this new relation of contact has 
produced a new relation between the several parts composing the 
glass. These several parts which are now at a greater or less 
distance from each other were formerly in cohesive contact. 

As, then, when a glass breaks, the operation of breaking is 
not an operation performed by the glass, but upon the glass by 
the object which strikes against it — as, when a man is said to 
see, feel, hear, taste, smell, the operations of seeing, feeling, 
hearing, tasting, and smelling, are not operations performed by 
him, but upon him— so when a man is said to thing or think— 



TO THINK. 287 

the operation of thinging or thinking is not an operation per- 
formed by him upon things, but by things upon him. And as 
we call the operation of objects upon the eye, seeing — upon the 
ear, hearing, &c. — so we call the operations of things generally 
upon our nervous system generally, and not through any one 
particular instrument or organ of sense, but through all of them 
collectively— so, I say, we call this operation of things upon us, 
thinging, or thinking. And if there had been one particular organ 
through the instrumentality of which this operation of thinging 
or thinking was performed, instead of its being performed through 
the instrumentality of all of them collectively, then we should 
have, or at least, might have called this operation of thinging 
or thinking, by the name of that organ, just as we now call the 
operation performed upon the eye, eyeing — upon the ear, (h) ear- 
ing — upon the palate, palating — upon the nose, nosing — upon 
the fell, (that is, the skin) felling or feeling. 

B. 

But what in the world do you mean by this word thinging ? 
I never heard or saw the word before. 

A. 

Then have you read Home Tooke with the open eye indeed, 
but the closed understanding, with which it has been his fate to 
be read by most men. You have, like my Lord Brougham, 
licked off the etymological scum from the surface of the clear 
deep waters of his philosophy, but of the waters themselves you 
have not tasted. 

"Does the Latin verus also mean trowed?" says Home 
Tooke's colloquist. To this he replies : " It means nothing 
else. Res, a thing, gives us reor, that is, I am thing-ed : ve-reor, 
I am strongly thinged: for ve, in Latin composition, means 
valde, i. e. valide. And verus, that is, strongly impressed upon 
the mind, is the contracted participle of vereor. And hence 
the distinction between vereri and metuere in Latin. Veretur 
liber, metuit servus? Hence also revereor." Here his col- 
loquist exclaims : " I am thinged ! Who ever used such lan- 
guage before ? Why, this is worse than reor, which Quinctilian 
calls a horrid word. Reor, however, is a deponent, and means 
J think." 



288 TO THINK. 

" And do you imagine/' says Home Tooke, in reply to this, 
" there ever was such a thing as a deponent verb, except for the 
purpose of translation, or of concealing our ignorance of the 
original meaning of the verb ? The doctrine of deponents is 
not for men, but for children ; who at the beginning must learn 
implicitly, and not be disturbed or bewildered with a reason for 
everything : which reason they would not understand, even if 
the teacher was always able to give it. You do not call think 
a deponent. And yet it is as much a deponent as reor* 
Remember, where we now say, I think, the antient expression 
was — me thinketh, i. e. me thing eth— it thing eth me. 

"Where shall we sojourne till our coronation? 
Where it thinks best unto your royall selfe." 

Richard 3rd, p. 186. 

For observe, the terminating k or g is the only difference 
(and that little enough) between think and thing. Is not that 
circumstance worth some consideration here ? Perhaps you will 
find that the common vulgar pronunciation of nothink, instead 
of nothing, is not so very absurd as our contrary fashion makes 
it appear. 

Bishop Hooper so wrote it. 

1 Mens yeyes be obedient unto the Creatour, that they may 
se on think, * and yet not another/— -A Declaracion of Christ e, 
hy Johan Hoper, cap. 8." 

It is true, this is all Horne Tooke says of the word think or 
of the word thing. But is not this sufficient ? Is not this fully 
enough to prove what he thought, not only of the word think, 
but also of the operation of thinking? Is it not quite clear that 
he believed the words think and thing to be one and the same 
word? "The terminating k or g" says he, "is the only 
difference (and that little enough) between think and thing. Is 
not that circumstance worth some consideration here V 3 

And then he introduces a quotation from Bishop Hooper, in 
which the word think is actually used instead of the word thing. 
Instead of writing one thing, the Bishop writes "one think/'' 

The ridicule, too, with which he mentions the grammatical 

* That is, one think — that is 3 one thing. 



TO THINK. 289 

doctrine of deponents is sufficient evidence that he perfectly- 
understood the nature of those operations which are said to be 
expressed by deponent verbs. He saw clearly that those 
operations which are expressed by deponent Latin verbs, are 
operations performed not by the speaker, but upon the speaker. 
He knew that, in fact, they are what grammarians call passive 
verbs. And that their active signification was only gratuitously 
bestowed upon them by translators, in order to make the Latin 
idiom correspond with the English idiom. Reor, say the 
grammarians, is a deponent verb and means / think. There is 
not, and never was, any such thing, says Home Tooke, as a 
deponent verb. " The doctrine of deponents is not for men, 
but for children." 

And I suppose there is no one of the present day who will 
deny this assertion. 

Since the nature of the Greek and Latin terminations is now 
so well understood, I do not see how it is possible to suppose 
that a verb with a passive form can have an active signification. 

The truth is, these deponents are all passive verbs, and should 
be translated, " I am" so and so. 

But, say the grammarians, we cannot translate reor in that 
manner — we cannot say, " I am thinked." To this, I reply, that 
that is only because we have forgotten that think and thing are 
one and the same word differently spelled. Had the words 
think and thing always been spelled alike — had the word been 
written either always think or always thing — it would then have 
always retained its meaning as the general name of all the 
various combinations of matter. And then we should have 
translated reor, " I am think-ed or thing-ed" — that is, " I am 
affected or acted upon by some think or thing" — just as we now 
say : a Iam poignarded," that is, " affected or acted upon by a 
poignard." Or, " I am wetted," that is, " affected or acted 
upon by the wet." 

But the aurita arcadise pecora — that is, the grammarians 
never dreaming that the word think is a noun, having the same 
sense and use as the word thing, and being indeed the same 
word differently spelled — and taking it for granted that the 
operation of thinking is an operation performed by us, like 



290 TO THINK. 

walking, or fighting, or digging, or singing — in translating the 
Latin passive form reor, had nothing for it but to render it by 
the English active form, " I think. " And they sought to conceal 
this stupid absurdity, and to put a muzzle on the mouth of 
inquiry, and to save themselves from the fancied disgrace of 
confessing that they knew nothing at all about the matter, by 
saying that reor is a deponent verb — that is, a verb with a 
passive termination, but an active signification. 

They might just as well have said that a negro is a " white 
man with a black skin." 

Had the grammarians made "nature the expositor of language 
instead of making language the expositor of nature," they could 
not have fallen into this error. Had they studied things instead 
of words — had they consulted the book of nature for the 
meaning of the word seeing , instead of consulting the dictionary 
- — when they looked at the sun, had they said to themselves, " I 
am now in the act of doing what is called seeing the sun — and 
yet I can certainly see nothing but light ; for if I still continued 
to look in the same direction, if there were no light, my 
experience proves to me that I should see nothing. But the 
light comes from the sun to my eyes — the operation called 
seeing, therefore, whatever it be, must be performed by the 
light upon my eyes — or, if the expression be more approved, by 
the body which sends that light to my eyes. 

It is not I who see the sun, but it is that thing, the sun, which 
thingeth me — me thingeth — me thinketh — me thinks — that is, 
me striketh — or, me strikes — or as we now say, strikes me. 
When a man says he is " sunning himself," he does not mean 
that he is doing anything to the sun or to himself, but that the 
sun is doing something to him, videlicet shining upon him. All 
that he himself has done is, the placing himself in a convenient 
position to allow the sun to shine on him. He means and does 
the same thing when he says, I am looking at the sun. All that 
he himself does toward the act of looking, is the turning his face 
toward the sun and opening his eye-lids. 

The eyes themselves he can neither open nor shut. 

Had not a slovenly and varying pronunciation caused the 
word thing, when the language became a written language, to 



TO THINK. 291 

be written sometimes thing and sometimes think, we should have 
still continued (in its proper place) to use the phrase, / am 
thinged, or it thingeth me — or me thinks — as our forefathers did 
— and, indeed, as we sometimes do even now — for the phrase 
me thinks is not yet quite obsolete. 

For although custom, and grammatical associations, make 
the phrase i" am thinked sound very harshly, yet I see nothing 
in the phrase / am thinged more uncouth than in the phrase i" 
am stoned, or / am booted, or / am sunned, or (if I get upon the 
table) i" am tabled, or, when the horse is in the stable, in the 
phrase, the horse is stabled. In all these phrases the verb or 
participle is made out of the noun or name mentioned. Out 
of the name stone is made the participle stoned. Out of the 
name boot is made the participle booted. Out of the name 
table is made the participle tabled. Out of the name stable 
is made the participle stabled. And why not out of the 
name thing make the participle thinged ? For this is the way 
in which all verbs and participles whatever are made in our 
language. As the phrase, I am stoned, signifies that I am 
experiencing the effects of a stone, so the phrase, I am thinged, 
signifies that I am experiencing the effects of things. But what 
are the effects of things upon us ? They are very various. 
They produce different effects upon different parts of the body. 
The rose produces one effect upon the eye, and a totally different 
effect upon the nose. For these particular effects we have 
particular names derived from the name of that part of the body 
on which the effect is produced. Thus the effect produced by 
vibrating air upon that living instrument called the ear, we call 
(h) earing — that is, earing. 

But besides the immediate and transient effect produced 
upon the instrument, there is another and much more 
permanent effect produced upon the nervous tissue within the 
skull beyond the instrument. Besides the temporary picture 
drawn upon the retina of the eye, there is another and 
yet more permanent effect produced — the picture of a pic- 
ture, if I may so speak. The former effect we call seeing — 
the second, remembering. And this is the case with all the five 
instruments of sense. This remembering is a general effect, 



292 TO THINK. 

produced by all things generally, upon the nervous tissue 
generally. There is no particular instrument provided for 
obtaining this effect. Therefore it could not derive its name 
from any particular instrument. It derives it, therefore, from 
the general name of all the objects capable of producing this 
general effect, viz. the name or word things — and we call it 
thinking, i. e. thinging. But as seeing, hearing, feeling, &c, 
are not operations performed by the eyes, the ears, the skin, 
&c, upon visible, audible, or tangible objects, but by these 
objects upon those instruments — so thinging or thinking is not 
an operation performed by us upon things, but by things 
upon us. 

The old form of expression puts this beyond doubt, I think, 
methinks, i. e. methingeth, methings — that is, something thingeth 
or things me — is precisely equivalent, both in sense and form 
of expression, to our very common phrase, " it strikes me" — or 
" something strikes me." As, for instance, " it strikes me we 
shall have more rain to day"- — " something strikes me that man 
is deceiving us." Now for each of these phrases, "it strikes 
me/ 3 or " something strikes me," may be substituted the words 
"I think," without the slightest apparent alteration in the 
sense — "I think we shall have more rain to day" — "I think 
that man is deceiving us." But the word something is, in fact, 
two words, some and thing, and mean some one thing — I do not 
know what — hut some one thing or other — "strikes me." But 
to be struck by a thing is to be thinged, precisely as to be dried 
by the air is to be aired — as to be warmed by the sun is to be 
sunned — as to be mounted on a good horse is to be well horsed 
—as to be stabbed by a poignard is to be poignarded. And as, 
in all these expressions, it is indifferent whether we say dried by 
the air or aired — warmed by the sun or sunned — mounted on a 
horse or horsed — stabbed by a poignard or poignarded — so also 
it is indifferent whether we say struck by a thing, or thinged. 

Now, then, as the two phrases, " I think," and " something 
strikes me," mean the same thing— and are mutually inter- 
changeable and convertible terms — it is quite clear that when 
we say, "I think," we mean what we mean when we say, 
" something strikes me"— =and that whatever that operation be 



TO THINK. 293 

which is performed when "something strikes me," that same 
operation is that which is performed when "I think" — since 
the two phrases, " something strikes me, "and e ' I think/' both 
signify the same thing. 

But although no one has ever yet pretended to give us the 
slightest inkling of the nature of that mysterious operation 
called " thinking," when considered as an operation performed 
by that other mysterious, incomprehensible thing, called mind ; 
yet that operation, when expressed by the equivalent phrase 
" something strikes me," becomes of itself perfectly simple and 
intelligible — and it also becomes quite manifest that the opera- 
tion (which is equally indicated by both forms of expression, 
" I think" and " something strikes me") is an operation 
performed, not by us, but by things upon us — for if it be some 
thing which strikes me, the operation is clearly performed by the 
thing — I being the patient affected or operated upon. 

It seems to me that he who shall still say that thinking is an 
operation performed by man, is necessarily bound to prove that 
the two phrases, " I think," and " something strikes me," can- 
not be used as equivalent terms. 

We have many other phrases indicative of this same opera- 
tion of thinking — all differing in words — but all agreeing in 
describing the operation as performed, not by us, but by some- 
thing apart from us, and acting upon us. Thus we say : " It 
runs in my head" or " in my mind" — " it occurred to me" — 
"it jumped into my head" — "it never once came into my 
head," meaning, "I never once thought of it" — "it came all of 
a sudden into my mind" — "the truth flashed upon me" — " it 
seems to me" — " it appears to me." All these are undoubtedly 
only so many varieties of expression all referring to one and the 
same operation, viz. that operation which we sometimes express 
by the words, "I think" — sometimes by the words, "it strikes 
me" — and sometimes by the phrases above mentioned. They 
all simply mean that we are affected by things — or thinged. 

If you ask me what is meant by the word something in the 
phrase "something strikes me," I answer: "that depends upon 
circumstances." If you go to the window and look abroad for 
a minute, and then, turning away, observe : " something strikes 



294 TO THINK. 

me we shall have a wet day"— in that case the word something 
means a wet day. A wet day is the thing which things you- — 
which strikes yon — which " seems" to yon — which " appears" 
to yon — which " shows itself to you" — which a thinks you," or 
of or concerning which " you think." In a word, which " you 
remember." 

You will observe here, if you please, that I cannot say 
" which thinks you," or " which you think" — because, although 
I can say, "a wet day thinks, i. e. things you," yet I can 
neither say, " you think a wet day," nor " you thing a wet day" 
■ — because the operation of thinking or thinging is not per- 
formed by you upon the wet day, but by the wet day upon you. 
If it were performed however by you, then I might say, ' c you 
think a wet day." But I cannot — and therefore I am obliged 
to introduce the prepositions " of" or iC concerning." I will 
explain the reason of this presently. And its explanation will 
form a strong collateral proof that the operation of thinking or 
thinging is strictly analogous with the operations of seeing, 
feeling, hearing, &c, and is, in fact, to all the organs of sense 
collectively, what seeing, feeling, hearing, &c. are to the same 
organs individually. 

If we resolve the following sentence : u It strikes me that we 
shall have a wet day" (which undoubtedly involves the operation 
of thinking), the resolution will stand thus ; and will, I think, 
render intelligible what the nature of that operation really is. 

RESOLUTION. 

" A wet day — it strikes me — we shall have that." 

Or since it and that have the same force — it signifying said 
and that signifying assumed — the resolution may stand thus : 

A wet day — that strikes me — we shall have that. 
That is— 

"A wet day — said wet day strikes me — we shall have as- 
sumed wet day." or, 

' ' A wet day — said wet day appears or seems to me — we shall 
have assumed wet day." 

or, 

" A wet day— said wet day thingeth me or methingeth—we 
shall have assumed wet day/' 



TO THINK. 295 

or, 
"A wet day— it thinks me — we shall have assumed wet day." 

" Where shall we sojourne ? — wherever it thinks best unto 
your royal selfe." That is to say : " in that place which place 
strikes or thingeth or thinks your royal selfe — or appears to 
your royal selfe — as the best place." Surely it is quite plain 
that it is the place which thinks — which appears — which strikes 
— which performs the operation of thinking, or striking, or 
appearing — and not the king. 

If you ask me to describe to you the nature of this operation 
or effect which is produced upon us by things, and which we 
call f thinging/ or f thinking/ or ' striking/ or f running in the 
head/ or l jumping into the mind/ or ' occurring to us/ or 
c remembering ' — to this I reply, that I will describe it to you 
as soon as you have described to me the nature of those 
operations which we call hearing, feeling, seeing, tasting, 
smelling. These last are five " somethings done" to five 
different parts of the body. But the nature of each something 
which is done we cannot tell. And so neither can any man tell 
the nature of that effect of things upon us which we call 
remembering. But yet every man can tell the nature of the 
one quite as well as he can tell the nature of the others. 

Why then has the one been considered so great a mystery, 
and the others not so ? Because man has sought to find, in this 
mysterious operation, a characteristic more exclusively peculiar 
to himself — a broader boundary-line of distinction between 
himself and inferior animals — than his Creator has been pleased 
to award him — but which the pride of his heart, arising out of 
his superior knowledge and power, makes him anxious to 
discover. 

Had there been a distinct set of visible organs for the faculty 
of remembering, or one distinct and visible organ for that 
purpose, as there is for seeing, hearing, &c, this mistake could 
not have occurred. For then it would have been observed that 
this remembering organ was possessed by other animals as well 
as by man. 

A dog cannot tell the nature of a stone, but he knows the 
nature of a stone nevertheless. He knows that a stone is hard 



296 TO THINK. 

as well as we do. He knows that a stone will hurt him, if it 
fall upon him, as well as we do. He does not know the word 
"hard," nor the word "hurt" — but he knows the feeling 
"hard/' and the feeling "hurt"— which feeling is the same, 
whether it be named or unnamed. It is not the word " hard," 
nor the word " hurt," which constitutes any part of the nature 
of a stoue. 

And so a dog, in like manner, understands the nature of 
smelling and tasting as well as we. That is to say, he can 
smell and taste as well as we. The only difference is that he 
cannot give names to them. 

The faculty of remembering (as we call it) is as distinct a 
sense, and has as just a title to be considered a sixth sense, as 
any one of the ordinary five. And it is a mistake to suppose 
that there are no organs of the memory. The eye is the organ 
of seeing, the ear of hearing, the skin of feeling, the nose of 
smelling, the tongue of tasting — and so the eye, the ear, the 
skin, the nose, the tongue, are the organs of remembering. 
They are the external instruments through the medium of which 
external objects are enabled to produce their necessary effects 
upon the living nervous tissue. While the eye is the organ of 
seeing, it is also the organ of remembering the things which 
have been seen. It is the organ through which visible objects 
cause themselves to be, not only seen, but remembered also. 

One of the grand characteristics of nature is the achievement 
of manifold effects from few causes. In this instance, she 
obtains two results through one organ — that result which we 
call seeing, and that other result which we call remembering. 

It is the same with all the other organs of the senses. 

If it be true, as I have asserted, that the organs of the senses 
are also the organs of remembering, then, wherever there is an 
organ of sense, there also ought to reside the faculty of 
remembering. Four of the instruments of sense are situated in 
the head. But one — the fell or skin — is spread out over the 
whole surface of the body. The faculty of remembering, there- 
fore, ought, in like manner, to be spread out over the whole 
body also. Accordingly we find that this is actually the case. 
When you remember a visible object, you say you can see it with 



TO THINK. 297 

your mind's eye. You seem to see it over again. This memory 
resides in the nerves of the eye. When you remember a sound, 
you hear it with the mind's ear. You seem to hear it over 
again. This memory resides in the nerves of hearing. But if 
you receive a severe wound in any part of your body, no matter 
where, when you remember the pain, you will seem to feel it 
again in the part on which the wound was inflicted. And 
besides this, who can doubt that the memory which enables 
Moscheles to execute his rapid passages on the piano-forte 
resides in the fingers themselves ? It is his fingers which 
remember where to find the proper keys, and not his brain. A 
weary and worn-out performer's fingers will still go on striking 
the proper keys, while executing some stale air, perhaps for the 
ten-thousandth time, when his brain is almost overwhelmed 
with sleep. 

That the faculty of remembering is a distinct sixth sense is, 
I think, quite clear. For it is quite possible to conceive that we 
might possess in perfection all the five senses, without the 
faculty of remembering. But without the faculty of remembering 
the other five senses would be of little use. The proverb that 
a " burnt child dreads the fire," would not then be true. When 
a child had put its hand into the fire and burned itself once, it 
would do so again, if it could not remember the pain. Experience 
would then be entirely without use. We should walk into the 
water, and run our heads against posts, and set fire to our 
houses — in a word, life would not be worth half an hour's 
purchase. 

Amongst the various modes of expression to which I have 
alluded, and which we daily use in order to denote that operation 
called thinking, there is one of which I have yet said but little, 
but which is the most important of all. It is this phrase — 
"something tells me." We say, " something tells me I shall 
not live long" — " something tells me that man is an impostor." 

There is another very common mode of expression in which 
the verb to say is used. It occurs thus, and is exceedingly 
common among those who speak according to the rules of nature, 
and not according to rules of grammar ; " as soon as I observed 
that the man hesitated and looked down, said I to myself, this 

Y 



TO THINK. 



man is a cheat. The sense is the same whether the expression 
be, said I to myself, or thought I to myself. 

I say this is important. For you will remember (as I told 
yon in an early part of our conversation) that the word thing 
has a double sense and use. Its first and original signification 
is speech. In its secondary sense, it is merely a general name, 
and is used as we use the word object, or nearly so. It is the 
name of all the component parts whereof the sum of the uni- 
verse is made up, and of the entire universe itself. When, 
therefore, this word thing is erected into a verb by placing to 
before it, that verb to thing, like the noun out of which it is 
formed, ought to have a double signification also. And the verb 
to thing ought to signify, not only to be " affected by things," 
a meaning which it derives from the secondary sense of the noun 
thing ; but it should also signify to speech, or, as we now spell 
it, to speak — a meaning which it should derive from the first and 
original sense of the word thing — viz. speech. And if, as I 
have asserted, the words think and thing are one and the same 
word, then our verb to think ought not only to signify to be 
-" affected by things," but also " to speak." And as I have 
sought to prove that our verb " to think" does actually some- 
times signify " to be affected by things," by showing that the 
phrase " something strikes me," is exactly equivalent with the 
phrase " I think," and is used to denote exactly the same opera- 
tion; which phrase " something strikes me," it cannot be 
questioned, does denote that " I am affected by something" — 
so I ought also to be able now to prove that the verb to think 
does also actually sometimes signify to speak, by showing that 
we are also in the habit of using phrases which are exactly equi- 
valent with the verb to think ; and which are used to denote 
exactly the same operation as the words to think ; and may be 
substituted in the place of the words to think, without, in any 
manner, altering the sense ; and which phrases do, beyond any 
question, signify to speak, say, or tell. 

The proof required I have already given you. It is contained 
in the very common phrases, " something tells me," and, " said 
I to myself" — for we manifestly mean the same thing, and it is 
wholly indifferent to the sense, whether we say: " I thought we 



TO THINK. 299 

should have rain to-day/' which is our form of expression at one 
time — or " something told me it would rain to-day," which is 
our form of expression at another time. Or whether we say, as 
we sometimes do, " thought I to myself," or " said I to myself 
it will rain to-day." 

This entire agreement in the double use of each of the two 
words think and thing — and not only in the double use, but 
also between the two senses of the two words reciprocally — is, I 
think, a strong confirmation of the truth of my assertion that 
think and thing are but one word. And when to this is added 
the fact that our noun a thing, was formerly sometimes written 
a think — not only by the Anglo-Saxons, but also by the early 
English writers — and the fact that our word thing, by those 
whose traditional pronunciation has not been corrupted by 
education, is still pronounced think, as in the word somethink, 
nothink — and the fact that the only difference between the two 
words, as regards the manner of spelling them, is a single letter, 
and that the final one, a circumstance not worth a moment's 
consideration when it is remembered that there is not perhaps a 
single word in the language which was not formerly spelled in a 
variety of ways — and when, in addition to all this, it is remarked 
how simple and rational and intelligible is the solution which 
this sense of the word think, taken in conjunction with the sense 
which I have restored to the word mind — when it is remarked 
I say, how simple, reasonable, and intelligible is the solution 
which is thus offered with regard to those unaccountable and 
incomprehensible mysteries which have hitherto been supposed 
to be represented by the words mind, thinking principle, opera- 
tion of thinking, &c. &c, about which such a heap of unintelli- 
gible and contradictory fustian has been palmed upon mankind, 
and called philosophy — surely it is not too much to say that, at 
least, I have in my favour strong probability — and strong pro- 
bability, arising from the facility with which it enabled him to 
account for all that was before unaccountable with regard to the 
planetary motions, is all the proof that can be advanced in favor 
of the universality of Newton's doctrine of gravitation. 

You may have observed, perhaps, that when we desire to ex- 
press the operations of seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting, and 

y 2 



300 TO THINK. 

smelling, we are accustomed to do so by two distinct forms of 
speech. Thus we either say: "I look/' or "it looks" — as: 
" I will look at it"—" it looks like rain." 

" I hear/' or " it sounds" — -as : " I hear a noise" — " that 
noise sounds like thunder." 

"I feel," or "it feels"— as : " it feels soft." 
"I taste," or " it tastes"— " I smell," or "it smells." 
But "there is nothing strictly arbitrary in language," says 
Home Tooke; nor is this two-fold mode of expression with 
regard to the senses either arbitrary or accidental. There is a 
reason in nature for it. For, in the exercise of the senses, there 
are, in fact, often two operations performed — the one voluntary 
and the other involuntary — the one being an action performed 
by us, and the other by things upon us. And it was in order 
to enable us to distinguish these two actions that these two 
distinct forms of speech were invented; since both operations 
are not necessarily nor always performed. 

It is the same with thinking. There are sometimes two 
distinct operations involved in that process — and it is to dis- 
tinguish between these two actions that we have the two forms 
of speech, " I think," and " it thinks me — it strikes me — me- 
thinks," &c. And, it is because one of these processes is really 
performed by us, and because the two-fold nature of the process 
has not been observed, and because the two-fold, i. e. original 
as well as secondary meaning of the word think has been for- 
gotten, that the two modes of expression have been confounded 
as being both indicative of one operation, and that that opera- 
tion has been supposed to be performed by some exclusive 
mental power possessed by us, and denied to all other animals. 
Hitherto I have only mentioned one of the operations involved 
in the process of thinking. I shall now explain the nature of 
the other. 

With regard to the exercise of the senses, I have already told 
you that all a man can himself do is to place his bodily organs 
in a possible and favourable position to be acted upon by 
things. Although the doing of this does not form any part 
of the actual operation of seeing, yet it is often absolutely 
necessary to the accomplishment of that process. Since you 



TO THINK. 



301 



cannot see a thing unless you will turn your face toward it and 
look at it — that is, bring the object in a line with the axis of 
your eye. And this is what you mean when you say : " I will 
look at it." But when you have done this — when you have 
performed your part of the process — all that part of the process 
which depends on your will — if you still continue to talk, and 
have occasion to speak of the sense of sight in connexion with 
that object while it stands before you, you then use a different 
form of expression. You then say : " it looks/' or " it seems" 
— because then the operation of seeing no longer depends on 
your will, but is performed upon you, whether you will or not, 
so long as you keep the eye exposed to the object. You do not 
then say: "I see it bright," or "I see him very tall," or " I 
behold him old ;" but you say : " it seems bright"— " he seems 
very tall"—" he looks old." 

So, again, you say : " I will taste it" — meaning you will 
place it on your tongue. But having done so, you then say, 
" it tastes" — as : " it tastes like wine and water." And again : 
" let me smell it" — meaning " suffer me to place it under my 
nose." But having placed it there, you then say, " it smells" — 
" it smells like garlic." And so on of all the other senses. 

Although, therefore, the act of seeing, feeling, &c. are not 
operations performed by you, but upon you ; nevertheless there 
are operations, preparatory and necessary, which must be 
performed, not always indeed, but very often, by you, before 
those operations called seeing, feeling, &e. can be performed 
upon you. When your eyes are open you cannot help seeing. 
But whether you will see any particular object or not, depends 
entirely on your will. Since it depends wholly upon your will 
whether you will perform those preparatory operations neces- 
sary to bring your eye into such a situation as shall allow any 
particular object to strike it. 

It is the same with thinking. When you are awake, you 
cannot help thinking — that is, you cannot help being thinged 
or thinked, according to the modern spelling. But whether you 
will think concerning (observe I am here obliged to use the 
preposition concerning) any particular objects or subject, as we 
say, depends very much, if not altogether, upon your will. 



302 TO THINK. 

Since (as in the case of seeing) it depends on your will whether 
you will perform those preparatory actions necessary to cause 
things to thing you, or " strike you/' or " appear to you/' or 
" to run in your head/' or " to jump into your mind/' &c. &c. 

I say then that, as, in order that any particular object may 
ce appear to you/ 3 it is necessary that you perform the preparatory 
operation of looking — that is, turning toward it, and fixing your 
eye upon it — -as, in order that any particular object may u taste 
to you like," it is necessary that you perform the preparatory 
operation of placing it in contact with your tongue — as, in order 
that any particular object may " smell to you like," it is 
necessary that you perform the preparatory operation of bringing 
it near your nose. So, in order that any particular object, or 
number of objects, may thing you, strike you, come into your 
mind, &c. &c. it is necessary that you perform the preparatory 
operation of talking, audibly or inaudibly. For, by virtue of that 
law called association, which exists not only between names and 
things, but between one name and another, and one thing and 
another, we no sooner begin to talk than multitudes of ideas 
and names crowd upon us, suggested to us one after another, in 
rapid succession, by the words we utter, and which ideas were 
not present to us before, and would not have been suggested to 
us at all, but for the act of talking — audibly or inaudibly. And 
as talking is dependent on our will, and is performed by us, so 
far, and no farther, is the operation of thinking performed by 
us, and dependent upon our will. And this twofold operation, 
the one preparatory and performed by us ; the other subsequent, 
and performed upon us, is the reason why, with regard to the 
operation of thinking, as with regard to the five senses, we have 
this two-fold mode of expression concerning which I have been 
speaking. This too is the reason why I was just now obliged to 
use the preposition " concerning" For when we use the word 
think to denote that part of the operation which depends on us, 
we then use it in the sense of the word talk, and are obliged to 
use a preposition, since we never say, " I will talk" a certain 
thing, but always "I will talk about" a certain thing. 

This, too, is the reason of that frequent expression among the 
uneducated— the speakers according to nature, and not according 



TO THINK. 303 

to grammar — I mean the phrase " said I to myself," when used 
instead of the words " thought I to myself." 

This, too, is the reason why most men, when they desire to 
bring certain objects to their recollection, and make them, as we 
say, the subject of thought, usually preface the operation by the 
utterance (very often audibly) of some such words as these ; 
"let me see — let me consider" — and then they go on talking 
(very often still audibly) "if I do so and so, so and so will 
happen — that will never do — no, no — I must do it the other 
way." And those who do not thus talk to themselves audibly } 
do so inaudibly. The motions of talking are gone through by 
the talking apparatus, but so slightly as to be with difficulty 
perceptible. 

This, too, is the reason of that rapid motion of the lips which 
you will sometimes observe in passengers along the street. 
These men are but doing more perceptibly what all men, when 
they think, do less perceptibly. 

The operation of talking to himself, too, constitutes the 
difference between what is called a thinking or thoughtful man, 
and a careless or superficial observer, or an unthinking or 
thoughtless man. The thinking man is always talking to 
himself — asking himself questions and replying to them — and 
he is thus constantly causing to pass before his mind a panorama 
of absent objects. 

This, too, constitutes the peculiarity of what are called absent 
men. The absent man, though walking along the street, is not 
thinged by the surrounding objects — is not struck by them — 
does not observe them — because he is busied in talking to 
himself, and thus conjuring up pictures of things possibly from 
the remotest corners of the earth. And words are the talismans 
— -the potent spells — which enable him to practise this enchant- 
ment. 

As talking to oneVself is (and is called) audible thinking, so 
thinking to oneVself is nothing but inaudible talking. And it 
was the silent consciousness that when we are thinking we are 
in fact only talking to ourselves, which doubtless gave origin to 
the phrase " thinking aloud," and which gives it its pertinence, 
its propriety, and significance. 



304 TO THINK. 

A very remarkable instance of the interchangeable and 
indifferent use of the two words say and think, and one strongly 
illustrative and provative of the truth of my assertion, that 
talking and thinking are two words having the same meaning, 
occurs in the seventeenth verse of the twelfth chapter of 
St. Luke : " And he thought within himself, saying, what 
shall I do V 3 Here the present participle saying is actually 
made the present participle of the verb to think. The two 
words are used as though they were actually only two parts of 
the same w r ord. As here used the present participle of the verb 
to think is saying. And the sense will not be at all affected 
however you transpose the words. You may either say, "he 
thought to himself, thinking ;" or " he said to himself, saying :" 
or " he said to himself, thinking ;" or " he thought to himself, 
saying" In the English version, one and the same thing is 
expressed by two different words having the same meaning, viz. 
think and say. And what is that one thing ? Why, the words, 
" what shall I do." These words are both that which he thought 
and that which he said. But in the Greek text both the thinking 
and the saying are expressed by only one word : " Kou duXoyl^sro 
h ectvTop, Ksyoov T/ ttoiyjo-m ;" for AioiXoyitypca (to reason with 
oneself) and Asyoo (to say) are manifestly but one word, there 
being only precisely the same difference between their senses as 
there is between the senses of our phrase to talk, and to talk or 
converse together. Aeyco means to talk — AiuXoyitypoa to talk in 
dialogue — Asy being the root and containing the sense of both. 

In the English, therefore, the two verbs to think and to say 
are both used, in the same sentence, to express one thing. In 
the Greek, that one thing is expressed by one word — and that 
word signifies to talk. " He thought within himself" — what 
did he think ? Answer : the words, " what shall I do ?" " He 
thought within himself, saying" — what did he say ? Why, the 
same words, viz. " what shall I do ?" 

I say, then, that the verb to think, when used to denote any 
action performed by us, signifies to talk, and nothing else — as, 
for instance, when we say, " I will sit down and think about it." 
And the phrase methinks is a reflective form of the same word, 
signifying in a figurative sense, that things are talking to us, or 



TO THINK. 305 

striking us, or coming into our minds, or occurring to us ; and 
that it denotes simply remembrance or rememorance. We do 
not indeed mean that things actually speak to us. But so 
neither do we mean that they actually strike, or come, or jump, 
or run, (which last is the meaning of the word occur) — and yet 
in ordinary conversation and writing we constantly attribute 
these actions to them. In all these forms of speech we speak 
merely figuratively; and we do so in order to distinguish an 
effect produced by things upon us, independently of our will, 
and of any operation performed by us, from that physical 
operation called talking, which is dependent on our will, and 
which is performed by ourselves. 

When a man or other animal is dreaming, he is merely 
thinged ; and in relating his dream should say, " inethought," 
or it appeared or occurred to me. When a man says, " I will 
think about it," all he means is that he will talk to himself 
about it ; for this is all that he can do. If there be anything 
else which he can do we have no word in the language to 
express it. 

Think, then, (not the verb, but the noun) like the noun 
thing j signifies speech. And to think signifies to speech, or 
to speak. 

We have another word in our language which is but the 
same word with a slight variation ; I mean the word thank. 

For services rendered to us, which we cannot repay, either in 
kind or in coin, we give in return thanks — that is, grateful 
words — kindly speech. In the provinces, they say, " I thank 
you kindly" — that is, I give you kindly words — words denoting 
my kindly or grateful feelings. If we are to interpret language 
by things — if it be true that language was made for things, and 
not things for language — then the meaning of the word thanks 
will not admit of question. For what are those things for 
which the word thanks was made? Are they not manifestly 
words ? 

Our verb to thank and the Anglo-Saxon verb thanc-ian are, of 
course, the same word. And our verb to think is, of course, 
identical with the Anglo-Saxon verb thenc-an. But I say that 



306 TO THINK. 

the two Anglo-Saxon verbs thancian, to thank, and thencan, to 
think, are also the same word. The Moeso-Gothic thagkjan 
(pronounced thankjan) — the Danish toenke (pronounced tarnk) 
and the Swedish tdnka, all of which signify to think, approach 
very nearly in sound to our word thank, and the Anglo-Saxon 
thancian. 

The Anglo-Saxon word thanc-ful signifies thankful — but the 
Anglo-Saxon word thanc-ul signifies thoughtful. 

The Anglo-Saxon word thanc-metuncg signifies deliberation — 
but the Anglo-Saxon word thanc-ung signifies thanking or 
thanks. 

But the root of all these words is literally one and the same, 
viz. thane ; which word thane signifies, in two of the compound 
words just mentioned, thanks. While in the other two, it 
signifies thought. 

Our word thing is, of course, identical with the Anglo-Saxon 
word thing. But the Anglo-Saxon word thing was also written 
thine. And hence it is quite as good English to say, a good 
think, a bad think, somethink, nothink, as it is to say a good 
thing, a bad thing, something, nothing; since thing and think 
are only different ways of spelling one and the same pure 
Anglo-Saxon word. Horne Tooke was right therefore when he 
said, " the vulgar pronunciation of nothink, instead of nothing, is 
not so absurd as our contrary fashion makes it appear." And 
Bishop Hooper, who so spelled it, spelled it correctly. For it is 
just as correct as the other. 

The Anglo-Saxons made their nouns into verbs by post-fixing 
the word an, ian, gan, or on. Those, therefore, who spelled the 
noun thing with a g, spelled the verb too with a g, and their 
verb became (by the addition of ian) thing -ian.) But those who 
spelled the noun with a c, (thine) spelled the verb with a c also, 
and their verb became (by the addition of an) thinc-an. Thincan 
was used impersonally : " swa me thincth/' i. e. so methinks, 
and is exactly equivalent to our phrase — so it appears or seems 
to me — so it strikes me — so it thingeth me, or methingeth, 
methinketh or methinks. But the noun thing or thine, out of 
which both these verbs were made, had two meanings. Its 



TO THINK. 307 

original meaning is speech. In its secondary sense it is merely 
a name for all objects in general. It is not at all surprising, 
therefore, having got two verbs differently spelled out of one 
noun having two meanings, that one of these verbs should be 
appropriated to attribute action to the noun in one of its senses, 
and the other to attribute action to it in its other sense. And 
thus, while the verb thingian was used to signify to speech, or to 
speak, the other verb, thincan, became appropriated to signify to 
be thing ed — that is, acted upon by things. This distinction was 
evidently required, and the two different ways of spelling the 
same verb presented a convenient method of making it. 

But I say further that the Anglo-Saxon verbs thinc-an, to 
seem—thanc-ian, to thank — thenc-an, to think — thing-ian, to 
speak — and the English verbs to-thank and to-think, are one and 
the same word, and have all one primary meaning, and that is, 
to-speak. They are manifestly only so many different ways of 
spelling the Anglo-Saxon verb thing-ian, to-speak. 

I have already shown you how very nearly, both in spelling 
and sound, the Moeso-Gothic, Danish, and Swedish words for 
think, approach to our word thank. And the Irish Gaelic word 
taing (which signifies thanks) does not differ greatly, either in 
sound or spelling from our word thing, and still less from the 
Friesic ding, and the modern German ting. And there is only 
the same difference between the senses of thincan and thencan 
that there is between the senses of our two phrases, " / think," 
and <c it strikes me" or " something tells me." 

They are two verbs made out of the same noun thine or thing, 
which noun has two meanings. And one of the verbs has been 
appropriated to signify that part of the operation of thinking 
which consists in speaking, and is made out of the noun in its 
primary sense of speech ; while the other has been appropriated 
to signify that part of the operation of thinking which consists 
of the operation of things upon us, and which we now denote by 
the phrase "it strikes me," or "something tells me," or "it 
seems to me -" and is taken from the noun in that secondary 
sense which we now always give to the word thing. And as we 
now sometimes use the phrases, " I think/' and " it seems to 



308 TO THINK. 

me/' indifferently one for the other, so also were the words 
thencan, to think, and thincan, to seem, used indifferently one 
for the other by the Anglo-Saxons. Thus, me gethuhte may 
either be translated it seemed to me, or / thought — me that riht 
ne thinketh, to me that seems not right, or, I thought that not 
right — hwcet thincth the that thu sy, what seems to thee that 
thou art, or, what thinkest thou that thou art ? And again, 
thencan was also used in the sense of thincan, for it was often 
employed in the sense of remember. But I suppose no one 
will say that remembering is an operation performed by us. 
All, I think, will admit that the remembrance of things comes 
to us wholly independent alike of our will, and of any action of 
ours. I suppose no one will be hardy enough to assert that the 
recollected images of things which come to us in our sleep do 
so in obedience to any action or operation performed by the 
sleeper ! 

No — it was found necessary, as it is now, to distinguish 
between that part of the process of thinking which is performed 
by us at our pleasure, viz. talking, and that other part of the 
operation which is performed independently of us, and by things 
upon us ; and having already got two spellings for one word, 
they took the one spelling and appropriated it to one purpose, 
and the other for the other purpose. 

The root of all is the word thing in its primary sense of talk. 
Thencan signifies literally to perform those actions which we 
denominate speaking — while thincan (although it literally mean 
the same) was figuratively used to signify to have those effects 
produced upon us by things which we now call ideas of things, 
or remembrances of things, and which they called (for want of a 
better phrase) being talked to by things; and which figurative 
form of speech is still preserved in the phrase something tells me, 
or, in the still more figurative and far-fetched expressions, 
something strikes me — it jumped into my mind, &c. &c. 

Ic thence (pronounced thenke) signifies / myself talk ; and me 
thincth means something else talks to me. And between the 
intelligible operation of talking ourselves, and the intelligible 
operation of being spoken to, i. e. struck or impressed by things, 



TO THINK. 309 

there is no intermediate operation whatever. Nor is there, nor 
was there ever, in our language, or in the language of any other 
people, any name or sign of any such imaginary operation. 
Nor does there exist any, the slightest necessity for supposing 
any such mysterious agent, in order to account for the 
unmeasured superiority of human knowledge over that of the 
brute. 

" Some men," says Professor Stewart, " even in their private 
speculations, not only use words as an instrument of thought, 
but form the words into sentences." "What is thus alleged, 
is true of all men," says A. B. Johnson. "If you repeat, in 
thought, the alphabet, you may employ your organs of speech 
so forcibly, that the thoughts will require but a little more 
energy to become audible words. Endeavour to avoid any 
agency of the tongue, lips, and breath, you will detect a slight 
agency, and of the tongue especially. The more freely we 
permit the tongue's movements, the more distinctly we can 
think the alphabet. If you stand before a mirror and protrude 
your tongue, you will see it either dilate or thicken, as each 
letter is pronounced in thought. The experiment must be made 
with letters whose articulation is lingual." "We do not think 
of words, as our theories lead us to say, but we think words 
themselves. A Frenchman thinks French words, and an English- 
man, English." 

Having shown that our word think is nothing more than the 
Anglo-Saxon noun thine, or thing, made into a verb by the 
preaddition of to; and that to-think must, therefore, signify to 
talk, the supposed operation of thinking is thus left without a 
name in the language; or else that it borrowed the name of 
thinking, i. e. talking, at some time posterior to the first 
invention of the word; and thus two separate and different 
operations came to be designated by one and the same name. 

If this monstrous supposition should obtain, I am then 
entitled to ask, how it happened that this extraordinary and 
important and characteristic operation performed by all men, 
and peculiar to man, should not have received an earlier 
designation, and one proper to itself? Why should it be 
reduced to the necessity of only sharing a name between itself 



310 TO THINK. 

and another operation ? And why was the operation of talking 
selected to designate it in preference to sneezing, or hearing, or, 
indeed, any other word in the language ? At what time, too, 
was the word signifying to-talk forcibly and arbitrarily made to 
signify thinking also ? When did men first discover that they 
were capable of performing the operation of thinking, in addition 
to that other operation of talking ? And when they first 
discovered that they could perform this operation, how came 
they not to appropriate a name wholly and exclusively to denote 
so wonderful an operation, and one, too, so characteristic of 
man ? How came they to suffer it to walk the world under a 
borrowed name ? And before the language became a written 
one, and when the words thencan and thincan were both used to 
designate talking, how did the hearers manage to know when 
these words were used in their original sense of speaking, and 
when in their new sense of thinking ? 

But there is another, and, in my estimation, an insurmountable 
argument against the existence of any such operation performed 
by us as that of thinking, apart from talking. And it is this — 
that it is wholly unnecessary. For cannot we, if it so please us, 
always think aloud on any subject we wish ? If a man sit down 
to solve a problem cannot he do it by thinking aloud ? Let any 
man try this, and he will find that he can do it, not only as well, 
but better. But to think aloud is to talk. And if a man can 
think aloud, he can also think in audible whispers — and if in 
audible whispers, in inaudible whispers also. 

Again : if a question of importance be put to one man, he 
says, " I will think about it, and give you my answer to-morrow." 
And he sits down to do so. But if that question be put 
simultaneously to two or more persons whose interests are 
mutually involved in the answer to be given, they also say, " we 
will think about it, and give you our answer to-morrow." But 
what is it they do ? Why, as soon as the questioner is gone, 
they say to each other, " now let us talk this matter over, and 
determine at once what answer it is best to give on this subject." 
And they sit down and begin to discuss the matter directly, and 
they continue to talk until they have decided on the answer. 
The only difference between these two cases is that while the 



TO THINK. 311 

one man talks to himself, the others talk to each other. Of the 
one man it would be said that " he is thinking" — of the others, 
" they are talking." Yet the two operations, if two they be, 
are only two different ways of obtaining the same result, viz. 
the best answer to be given to the question. And that result 
would be equally well produced by either method. 

B. 

But do not men think while they are talking ? 

A. " 

I have said, you know, that thinking is a double operation, 
consisting of "being struck," or "having ideas or sensations," 
or " of being thinged," i. e. affected by things, or figuratively 
" spoken to by things" — in one word, consisting of remembering 
and talking. If, therefore, you mean to ask whether people can 
remember when they are talking, I answer, yes, and the act of 
talking causes them to remember multitudes of things which 
would not otherwise have occurred to them at that particular 
time at which they were wanted. This is effected by what is 
called the association existing between things, and between 
things and their names. And this is what I meant when I 
said, in a very early part of our conversation, that the law of 
association answers a most important end in the constitution of 
man's nature. 

Let us suppose two brothers have determined to build a house 
for their mutual accommodation and at their mutual charges. 

At present they have done no more than merely determining 
that they will " build a house." 

The thinking would then probably proceed something in this 
manner. "Well, brother, we will build a house — that's set- 
tled—but where shall we build it ? — that's the next question." 
Now the frequent repetition of this word " build" would have 
already caused both brothers to remember whatever they had 
lately seen or heard having reference to "building." It would 
have already caused the one brother to remember, probably, that 
he had the other day seen a certain board whereon were written 
the words : " This land to be let on building leases." He would 
immediately mention this to the other. But the other, in the 
mean time, would probably remember that his neighbour had 



312 TO THINK. 

told him last week that he had a piece of very eligible freehold 
ground which he was desirous of selling, and which would be 
very valuable to any gentleman desirous of building. This 
recollection, or idea, or remembered circumstance, he now puts 
into words for the purpose of communicating it to his brother ; 
and adds, perhaps, " which shall we do ? Shall we take a piece 
of land on lease, or purchase a piece of freehold ground ?" But 
now the word "purchase" brings to their memory all the things 
associated with purchasing — the chief of which is money — and 
immediately their minds wander to their bankers, as we say in 
ordinary lauguage. But it is not their minds which wander to 
the banking-house, but the word " purchase" has brought the 
banking-house to them — or the funds — or whatever place it 
happens to be in which they possess available sums of money. 

Having thus counted their money, and having found that 
they can afford to purchase, and having determined that they 
will have the freehold, then comes the question : " what sort of 
house shall it be ? How large ? Of brick or stone ? Of what 
style of architecture?" If either of them had seen any one 
particular house, whose appearance and internal arrangement he 
had admired, these questions would instantly bring that house 
to his mind. He would then proceed to describe it to his 
brother. <c I should like to go and look over it with you," says 
the brother. To which the other perhaps replies, " that, I am 
sorry to say, is now impossible. It was burnt to the ground 
last week." But these words u burnt to the ground" are 
associated with another set of remembered things — of houses on 
fire — of children burnt to death, &c. — and it is not improbable 
that they would cease to think, for a time, about building, in 
order to relate, one to the other, the history of a terrible fire 
attended by the loss of several lives, which he had lately read in 
the paper. It would also cause them to remember that they 
had heard that it was possible to build houses " fire-proof" — 
and both would exclaim, "we will certainly have our house 
built " fire-proof." And thus that part of the building question 
would have been thought about, and settled. 

The whole process of thinking about building a house might be 
thus pursued from beginning to end, and shown to consist of 



TO THINK. 313 

nothing but talking and remembering. And it would be the 
same were the question how to solve a mathematical, or ethical, 
or political problem. 

Now it is quite clear, that all which has been said aloud by 
these two men (or something like it) might have been said in 
whispers barely audible. And it is equally clear that the whole 
of it might have been said by one man to himself without 
moving his lips — and then it would have been, and would have 
been called, thinking. 

A gentleman with whom I was in conversation the other day, 
and who had read my definition of mind, said that, although he 
could not refute the definition, he felt convinced that something 
more was necessary in certain processes of reasoning besides 
mere memory ; although he could not tell what it was. And he 
was right. Something more is necessary. And that something 
more is talking. 

Our word reason is a Latin word, and bears the same relation 
to the Latin word for thing, which our word think bears to the 
Anglo-Saxon word thing. 

We get the word reason from the French raison — which they 
got from the Latin ratio — which the Latins made out of the 
word ratus, the past participle of their own verb reor — which 
verb reor they made out of the Latin noun res, a thing. 

Since, then, the whole process of thinking consists of nothing 
else than talking and remembering — and since it is impossible 
to deny that the inferior animals can remember — and since 
mind is nothing more than another name for remembered 
matter— it directly follows that there is no difference whatever 
between the mental constitution of man and that of the animals 
next below him — at least, none which can be predicated from 
any exclusive faculty hitherto supposed to be represented by the 
words mind, think, intellect, &c. — and that if there be any 
exclusive mental faculty proper to man alone, it is not only 
without a name in any language, but also without a purpose. 

The faculty of speech is fully sufficient of itself to account, 
simply and rationally, for all the sublime speculations and 
accumulated knowledge which place man at the summit of the 
animal chain ; and, while it supposes no fundamental difference 



314 TO THINK. 

whatever in his nature, bestows on him all his amount of 
superior power. It constitutes the sole difference between the 
earthly nature of man and his brute-brother. Compacted, in all 
essentials, of the same organs — brought into existence by the 
same laws — supported by the same living principles — perform- 
ing the same animal functions — endowed with the same senses — 
characterized by the same appetites, hunger, thirst, sexual de- 
sire—exhibiting the same passions, filial love, parental affection 
— "hurt with the same weapons, warmed and cooled by the 
same winter and summer" — they live, love, and die alike in a 
common obedience to a code of laws common to their common 
nature. 

Since man, then, (excepting that of speech) possesses no 
faculty and no sense which is not common to the animals next 
below him — and since it will be readily admitted that these 
latter have no other sources of knowledge than the senses — it 
follows that these also constitute the sole fountains of all human 
knowledge. For although language proffers itself as the ready 
means of recording, communicating, and accumulating know- 
ledge, yet this is all it can do. 

Words of themselves are, literally and absolutely, sounds, and 
nothing else but sounds. They are not knowledge, but the 
signs of knowledge. You can no more talk ideas into any man, 
than you can talk the colour of the rose into a blind man — the 
sound of a trumpet into a deaf man — or the fragrance of rose- 
mary into one destitute of smell. No words, no possible phrase- 
ology, no ingenuity, can discourse into me one single new 
idea — unless, indeed, it be the idea of a new sound. Nothing 
but our senses can furnish us with ideas or sensations, which 
are the component parts of knowledge. 

Words can make us know words, and nothing but words. 
Nothing but our senses can make us know things. 

The ability to give names to things, then, is the sole exclusive 
characteristic by which the Deity has vouchsafed to distinguish 
men above the inferior animals; and to which he owes the 
whole of his vast superiority of knowledge and power. 

And this is the altar which I said I would raise to the faculty 
of speech. 



TO THINK. 315 

Endow an elephant with the gift of speech — teach him the 
use of the words cause, suppose, effect, therefore, fyc, fyc. — when 
he has placed his foot on a dog, and crushed him to death, tell 
him to call his foot the cause of the dog's death, and the dog's 
death the effect of the pressure of his foot — and teach him the 
use of the other words by similar means — give him, moreover, 
a strong interest in the success of his studies — and I am confi- 
dent it would not be difficult to prove to any unprejudiced 
mind, that it might fairly be predicated of such an elephant that 
he could be made to comprehend the several steps of that 
stumbling-block of young academics — that pons asinorum— the 
fifth problem of Euclid. I say thus much might be fairly 
predicated of such an elephant, from the powers of reasoning 
which some of them have actually exhibited. 

If a hungry dog find the carcase of a sheep beneath a par- 
ticular tree, in a remote field, he will satisfy his hunger, and 
return to his master's house. When his hunger returns on the 
following day, he will repair again to the same spot. The 
sensation of hunger, in this case, supplies to the dog the office 
of words. The sensation of hunger recals to his mind the 
field, the tree, and the carcase, and the road which leads to 
them ; and he proceeds straightway to the spot, in the expec- 
tation, or hope, or desire (call it what you please) of finding the 
remnant of the sheep still there. Now if you put all this into 
the proper words, it will exhibit a regular process of reasoning. 
But the words, and the words alone, will be yours — the reasoning 
will be the dog's. 

It is language which enables us to suppose cases and con- 
struct theories. 

Sir Isaac Newton knew and remembered that, if a billiard 
ball be suspended by a string from a nail in the wall, and be 
then struck in a direction parallel with the wall, and at right 
angles with the string, its motion will describe a circle of which 
the nail will be the centre. He also knew that certain bodies 
have the power of attracting other certain bodies. 

He then proceeded to give new names to the billiard ball, the 
string, and the nail. He called the billiard ball the earth — the 
nail he called the sun — and the string which was stretched be- 

z 2 



316 TO THINK. 

tween the nail and the ball he called the sun's attraction of the 
earth towards itself. When his hand struck the ball, in order to 
make it describe the circular motion I have mentioned, he called 
the impetus, given by the hand to the ball, by the name of the 
projectile force. 

He then proceeded to talk to himself about (as he supposed) 
the sun, the earth, the attractive and projectile forces. But 
who does not clearly perceive that it was, in fact and reality, 
not the earth, the sun, &c. about which he was talking, but the 
billiard ball, the nail, the hand which struck the ball, and the 
known phenomena of the magnet. In order to apply this 
theory to the other planets, he had only to change the name 
once more in succession for each planet. And the billiard ball 
which, in the ordinary experiment was called a billiard ball, 
took, in the hands of Sir Isaac Newton, the names in succession 
of all the planets. The names which he traced on paper were 
the names of the planets. But the thing that was in his mind, 
and which was really represented by those names was the 
billiard ball. Sometimes he called the billiard ball the moon, 
and then he called the nail the earth. Sometimes the nail took 
the name of Jupiter ; and then the billiard ball became one of 
his satellites. Newton supposed he was reasoning of the earth, 
the moon, Jupiter and his satellites ; but in fact he was only 
reasoning of the billiard ball, the nail, and the magnet, under 
the assumed names of these planets. 

Had not language enabled Newton to give names to things, 
and to substitute thus one name for another, he could not have 
stirred a single step. 

By the way, another very common form of expression has 
this moment occurred to me, by which like our Anglo-Saxon 
ancestors, we figuratively consider things which strike us, or 
occur to our remembrance, as speaking to us. I have said the 
ancient phrase methinks or methings is exactly equivalent with 
something strikes me or something tells me — or me strikes or me 
tells. The phrase which has just occurred to me is this : " the 
thing speaks for itself." 

Having thus shown, and, as I unfeignedly believe, incontro- 
vertibly, that no fundamental difference between brute nature 



TO THINK. 317 

and human nature can be predicated in favour of man, from any 
reference to those pretended exclusive human characteristics 
supposed to be represented by the words intellect, mind, think- 
ing principle, and their synonyms, I do not know that any 
other pretext for such difference remains to be removed. 

B, 
Yes — there is another — "the instinctive wish to know" — 
which is universally believed to characterise man, and distinguish 
him from all other animals. 

A. 
Ay, true — I forgot " man's instinctive wish to know." But 
this is an exceedingly vague and general phrase. There are 
some things, it is true, which all men alike desire to know. 
But then there are some things which only some men desire to 
know, and not others. But, as you say, all men have "an 
instinctive desire to know." For instance — some men have 
' ' an instinctive wish to know" — how to get themselves talked 
about hundreds of years after they shall have been dead, buried, 
devoured, thoroughly digested, and finally converted into the 
slimy juices of the earth-worm's body. I myself have a strong 
" instinctive wish to know" — how to acquire a thousand a-year 
without working like a pack-horse. This last " instinctive wish 
to know" is, I believe, rather common than not. And the man 
who first desired to know — how to impress letters on paper by 
machinery instead of the goose-quill : the man who first desired 
to know — how to apply steam to practical purposes : the man 
who first desired to know — how to light our streets with gas : 
the man who first desired to know — how to apply chemistry to 
manufacturing purposes : the man who first desired to know — 
how to spin with spinning jennies instead of human hands : and 
the men who are at this moment torturing their brains on 
account of their "instinctive wish to know" — how to propel 
steam-engines by means of a power which shall cost nothing, 
instead of coals which cost a great deal — I say, all these men, I 
firmly believe, did and do possess a strong " instinctive wish to 
know" — how to acquire a fortune. 

What a farce is all that has been said and sung about this same 
" instinctive wish to know !" Has not a dog, when he is 



318 TO THINK. 

hungry, " an instinctive wish to know"— where to find food ? — ■ 
when thirsty— where to find a ditch ? — when cold and in danger 
— where to find shelter and protection ? Who does not see at 
a glance that this " instinctive wish to know/' as it is falsely 
called, is nothing else but "an instinctive wish to acquire ?"-— 
that is, to acquire the means of administering to our own 
gratification ? Who does not perceive that this pretended 
" wish to know" is but one of the ten thousand protean mani- 
festations of self-love — and is equally proper to the hog and the 
dog — to fish, flesh, and fowl — to bird, beast, and bat— to men, 
mice, and monkeys ? It is the manifestation of that great law 
which God has devised for the preservation, perpetuation, and 
well-being of all his creatures. It is that great law of God — ■ 
the law of self-love— which, though fools affect to despise it, and 
a few madmen have dared to disobey it, is the mainspring and 
the motive of all animal actions, whether brute or human- 
saving those which arise from other instincts more particularly 
adapted to the preservation of the species rather than the 
individual — as, for instance, parental affection. 

It does not make the difference of a straw, that one man 
desires posthumous fame — another wealth- — another that feeling 
of gratification and satisfaction and self-laudation, which results 
from the successful prosecution of abstruse calculations ! Self- 
gratification, in one shape or other, is the one sole object of 
pursuit with all. 

Our very hope of heaven— what is it? — but a desire to 
enjoy ? 

Self-love excites in us a desire to possess everything which 
can, or which we fancy can, administer to our gratification. In 
our civilized condition we have created for ourselves a thousand 
artificial wants— and the multifarious means necessary to gratify 
these multifarious wants give a multifarious character to the 
manifestations of self-love. 

The inferior animals have no artificial wants— they are all 
natural, and therefore uniform and few. And the uniformity 
and fewness (see — I have just unwittingly created a new abstract 
idea) of their wants, give a uniformity and fewness to the modes 
in which their self-love is manifested. 



TO THINK. 319 

It is in vain that man struggles to emancipate himself from 
the common chain whereof his Creator has made him an 
indissoluble link. The very weed which forms "the green 
mantle of the standing pool" claims kindred with him — and 
justly. For the fundamental laws of life — absorption, secretion, 
respiration, and circulation — the laws which govern even the 
generative functions — and the living actions therefrom resulting 
— are not exclusive to man or brute — but must be acknowledged 
and obeyed by him in common with most, if not all, of the great 
vegetable family. Every man who understands the anatomy 
and physiology of plants must be compelled to acknowledge 
this. And I speak advisedly when I say, that there is less 
fundamental difference between a man and a cabbage, than there 
is between a grain of mustard seed and a grain of sand. 

If we would obey the Delphic oracle and know ourselves, we 
must look beneath the skin ; for we can only arrive at such 
knowledge by taking the machinery to pieces, and comparing it 
organ by organ, and function by function, with the machinery 
of other animals. And he who does this will be compelled to 
admit the perfect homogeneity of human organization, in all 
essentials, with that of the animals next below him. It is not 
the fur of the fox, the scale of the salmon, the plumage of the 
bird, or the shell of the lobster, which is sufficient to unlink 
these animals from the common animal chain. Nor can the 
organs of speech confer that privilege on man. The greater or 
less developement of an os calcis or an os coccygis, may serve 
well enough to inform the natural philosopher under what class 
to rank this or that particular animal, for the convenience of the 
student. But such trivial varieties of configuration are mani- 
festly and entirely insufficient to establish any fundamental 
difference in the general animal nature. To those who con- 
template only the surface of things, there is little similarity 
between the external skin of a man, and the shell of a lobster. 
The physiologist, however, knows well enough that the little 
laminse composing the human scarf-skin, the scale of the fish, 
and the shell of the lobster, are in reality fundamentally the 
same. There is no other difference between them than that 
which exists between several suits of armour of different sizes, 



320 TO THINK. 

fashions, and patterns. Like the several suits of armour, they 
are essentially the same, only differing in texture and con- 
figuration, in order to reconcile those grand characteristics of 
creation, simplicity with infinite variety; and in order to 
accommodate themselves to the different wants arising out of 
the different circumstances with which the different animals are 
destined to be surrounded. The hand of man is not the less a 
fore-paw, and the fore-paw of the tiger is not the less a hand, 
because a difference of configuration in the bones, muscles, 
tendons, and nails, calculated to adapt each the better to the 
wants of either animal, has caused us to distinguish them by 
different names. In all fundamental essentials they are the 
same instrument. 

But even this difference of configuration is confined, in the 
animals next immediately below man, almost entirely to the 
bones, muscles, &c. In the vital organs of these animals— the 
brain, the spinal marrow, the lungs, heart, liver, kidneys, &c. — 
the difference of configuration is extremely slight indeed. The 
difference between their blood and the blood of man is altogether 
minute and trifling, and easily accounted for ; while the nervous 
fluid, whatever it be, is unquestionably the same, as certain 
galvanic experiments, I think, fully prove. 

The same intimate relation and fundamental fellowship 
between the mere earthly nature of man and the upper classes 
of the meaner animals is as easily discoverable from a comparison 
drawn between the natural propensities and actual conduct of 
the two beings. To the attentive observer, unprejudiced and 
fancy-free, these again are, in all essentials, the same ; and do 
not differ, in any way, more than the scale of the salmon differs 
from the lobster's shell — or the human scarf-skin from the 
salmon's scales. Nor is this at all surprising — seeing that the 
conduct of both is the necessary result of the same great general 
laws — the chief of which is the continuation of the several 
species. 

Nor is it necessary, in order to exhibit this parallel, to travel 
to the forest inhabitants of New Zealand. Man is, in all 
essentials, everywhere the same — in every age, in every clime, 
and in every intermediate condition between utter barbarism 



TO THINK. 321 

and polished civilization. " Naturam expelles furca, tamen 
usque recurret," said somebody — I think Horace. That is to say, 
" you may thrust nature out of doors with a pitch-fork as often 
as you please, but she will be sure to get in again, either at the 
window, or through the key-hole." If things be called by their 
right names, I know of no vice or crime common to barbarians 
which is not practised, openly or secretly, in some one or other 
of the civilized communities of mankind — while there are 
hundreds of vices daily practised in civilized societies of which 
the savage is entirely guiltless. Murder, rapine, theft, infanti- 
cide — revenge, hatred, malice— are all, or any of these, strangers 
to civilized communities ? They are not so frequent indeed — 
but in how many instances is the non-commission of these 
crimes owing, not to any difference or improvement in the 
nature of man, but solely to the fear of punishment ? 

B. 
What say you to cannibalism, and human sacrifices to false gods ? 

A. 
I say that they are not instances which detract in any way 
from the truth of what I have said. The crime of murder is not 
enhanced, in the minutest fraction, whether the murderer after- 
ward eat his victim himself, as the Caribs do — or deliver him 
over to be eaten by the worms as we do — or to be eaten by the 
sharks, as they do at sea. The crime is the crime of murder, 
and nothing more — and is an offence against God. The after 
act is merely an offence against the habits and manners of 
civilized men — and does not enhance the crime — no, not the 
millionth part of an atom. But it requires no very acute 
observer to discover that in almost all instances, the punishment 
awarded directly or indirectly to offences against the laws of 
man, is infinitely greater than that awarded to offences against 
the laws of God. A few years ago, forgery was punished by 
death. A man may still get drunk, and thus commit a great 
sin against the laws which God has laid down for the preserva- 
tion of his health, as often as he pleases to pay five shillings to 
the magistrate — and even this slight fine is scarcely ever 
enforced. But many much stronger and more apposite 
instances than this might have been easily selected. 



322 TO THINK. 

As to your other instance — human sacrifices offered to false 
gods — I can scarcely suppose you in earnest. What ! are there 
no human sacrifices made in this age of intellectual elevation 
and moral improvement ? Are there no human sacrifices offered 
to those Molochs — those false gods — conventual custom and 
opinion ? Is there no human blood on their altars. 

Look at yon fair-haired youth. A few years ago he was a 
healthy and chubby boy, employed by the farmers to keep the 
crows from the wheat — a thoughtless, happy urchin, luxuriating 
at his lazy length on the sunny bank, revelling in the enjoyment 
of vigorous health, and giving promise of a sturdy manhood, 
and a lengthened life. 

A gentleman in his neighbourhood, attracted by the boy's 
personal appearance, and gentle temper, took a fancy to him. 
He proposed to send him to a good school, at his own expense, 
and (to use his own expression) to make a gentleman of him. 
The offer pleased the boy, and gratified the pride of his parents. 
They joyfully accepted the offer — proud to see a son of theirs 
thus " elevated in the scale of society " 

He was clothed in a genteel suit of fine cloth, and decorated 
with a white fall-down collar over his shoulders, and sent to 
boarding school, and was taught the ordinary routine business 
of such schools. 

"Within the last twelve months, his patron procured him a 
situation in a highly respectable mercantile house in London, at 
a salary of sixty pounds for the first year, and to be increased as 
he got older and more useful. 

His parents were grateful and delighted. They were proud 
to see their young son dressed like a gentleman, and having the 
gait and manners and language of a gentleman, taking his 
place on the coach bound for the great city. And then his 
salary ! sixty pounds a year ! why, it was more than the father 
could earn for the support of his whole family ! and this boy was 
but fifteen ! "What a fine thing is education \" said they™ 
" When house and land and money's spent, 
Then learning is most excellent. - " 
And with this morsel of philosophical reflection, they resumed 
their daily employment. 



TO THINK. 



323 



Last Christinas, this boy sent his parents five pounds. But 
he could ill spare it. For being "elevated in the scale of 
society" he felt himself compelled, and indeed the nature of 
his employment obliged him, to dress what is called respectably 
— -to spend more money for one suit of clothes than would 
have clothed all his country brothers and sisters, who were not 
" elevated in the scale of society," for a whole year. And then 
he must have respectable lodgings, and there was his weekly 
washing bill, and sundry other little expenses incurred to supply 
sundry little wants which his new situation entailed upon him, 
and there was also his weekly board. 

He had not been in London more than three months before 
he became subjected to a new and unexpected expense in the 
shape of a doctor's bill. 

Some how or other, he began to lose his appetite — and he 
became thinner too — he lost much of his early buoyancy of 
spirit — and had contracted a nasty troublesome cough. That 
cough has never left him — it never will leave him— twelve 
months' confinement to the desk in this great tomb of health — 
the city of London — has done for him what no human skill can 
undo. Consumption has set her mark upon him, and doomed 
him irrevocably to an early death. 

With a faint hope of protracting his life for some few months, 
I spoke of a removal to the country. But he will not hear of 
it. He cannot believe that there is anything of importance the 
matter with him. He feels no pain, and his appetite is already 
returning. " And when I can eat heartily again," said he, cc of 
course I shall get stronger." 

A few months more will fully and fearfully undeceive him. 

This is not the history of a solitary individual. It is the 
annual history of many hundreds. 

The sedentary employment, and close atmosphere of a city 
counting-house, acting on a frame not originally diseased, but 
delicately constructed, has condemned this boy to premature 
death. Had he remained a free and careless denizen of the 
sunny fields of his own county, earning his bread by the whole- 
some exercise of his limbs, instead of the continuous daily 
tension and excitement of his brain, first in the school and then 



324 TO THINK. 

in the counting-house, he had lived in all human probability, to 
fulfil the ends of his being, and died at a good old age. 

This boy's life has been sacrificed to the public rage for 
"elevating man," as it is absurdly called, "in the scale of 
creation" — which elevation, in ninety-nine cases out of every 
hundred (I speak greatly within the mark) consists in the 
privilege of wearing a black coat and satin stock, instead of 
hoddin-gray and a red silk handkerchief — of affecting the dialect 
and manners of those born, not to a happier or better lot, but 
only to a different one — and of toiling harder, more continuously 
and less wholesomely, than any labourer of the very lowest 
class. 

I am quite sure I am safe when I say, that there is not a 
medical man, of any considerable practice, in any large town in 
England, whose personal experience would not furnish him with 
more than one instance of early death, clearly, indisputably, 
traceable to the struggle, the unnatural excitement, the gnawing, 
endless wear and tear of body and brain, voluntarily incurred 
from the fancied necessity of making what is called a " respec- 
table appearance" — and the medical men, in considerable prac- 
tice, in this country alone, probably exceed an hundred thousand. 

The condition of him who is happy and contented, however 
poor, however mannered, and whether wearing a fashionable 
coat, or the labourer's frock, is unimprovable. Happiness is the 
sole and universal aim of all mankind, however diverse the 
means by which it is sought ; and he who possesses it already, 
already possesses all — all that all mankind are labouring to 
acquire, and all that all human contrivances are invented to 
procure. Such a man may lose much — nay all — but can gain 
nothing. And is any man prepared to say that happiness is 
not as assuredly and easily within the reach of the uneducated 
cottage-dweller, as of those in any one of the ranks above him ? 
Will not most men admit — have they not already admitted, in 
the shape of almost numberless proverbs, in all civilized lan- 
guages, that the chances of happiness are even greatest in the 
humblest ranks of society V' " Fat, contented ignorance," as 
the phrase goes, is the unmeaning sneer either of a fool, or an 
arrogant assumption of unreal superiority with which pride and 



TO THINK. 325 

mortification seek to repay themselves for the real blessings of 
contentment which they feel they have lost. Was it Paley or 
Parr who said that, were he young again, with the wisdom he 
then possessed, and could choose his own lot in life, he would 
select that of a healthy agricultural labourer ? 

When the sayings of such men as these tally with the pre- 
judices of the many, they are hawked about and reiterated on 
every occasion ; and the dissenter from public opinion is pelted 
with them at every corner. But when they chance to differ from 
public opinion, they are left unnoticed, as things of no weight 
or moment. 

Were it not that I shrink from shocking the feelings of many 
estimable persons, I would here draw up another long list of 
victims — instances in which nature, forcibly expelled at the 
tyrannical bidding of a conventional custom, breaks her neck 
and loses her life, in attempting to get in again at the window. 
But I am silent — and that silence is a lie by omission — and 
that lie is an offering wherewith, albeit " cultor parcus et infre- 
quens," I am compelled to propitiate the idol, conventional 
opinion ; while, in my heart of hearts, I intensely feel that he 
is a "false god." 

Never say we have ceased to make human sacrifices. For to 
kill is still murder, whether achieved by the veritable sacrificial 
knife of the heathen priest to propitiate a heathen deity; or 
whether it be accomplished more slowly and stealthily, but not 
less certainly, and by indirect means, in order to propitiate 
the opinions of men. What difference does it make in the 
criminality of the deed, whether my life be let out at the point 
of the assassin's steel, or smuggled from me by the gradual 
admixture of poison with my daily food by an unseen enemy 
— or by an enemy calling himself my friend, and cajoling me 
into the belief that the poison with which he adulterates my 
food is a wholesome article of diet? In matters of pounds, 
shillings, and pence, men do not thus deceive themselves. And 
every man can see readily enough that robbery is still robbery, 
whether a man be plundered of his watch by a highwayman, or 
swindled out of that watch's value, by a smiling impostor, at 
the rate of a shilling a day. Those who were slain, in the 



326 TO THINK. 

olden time, at the foot of the sacrificial altar, as propitiatory 
offerings to false gods, were, de facto, but so many sacrifices to 
public opinion — then, as now. And those who lose their lives 
in the struggling effort to propitiate the public opinion of the 
present day, are, de facto, but so many sacrifices to false gods-— 
now, as then. The idol, and the idol-worship, and the sacrifice, 
are, in all but in name, interchangeably one and the same. 
We shudder at the fate and deplore the benighted ignorance of 
the poor wretch who prostrates himself beneath the wheel of the 
car of the Hindu Juggernaut, courting a voluntary, and, as he 
supposes, a sanctified death. The Juggernaut of our own 
worship, conventional opinion, drives rampant before our faces, 
over the necks of thousands, while we clap our hands and 
shout, and, like the Pharisee of old, bless God that we are not 
as other nations — -barbarians, and idolators — but an enlightened 
and an intellectual people. 

It is still with us, as it was of yore with the Athenians — all 
are barbarians except our spotless and superlative selves. 

I have said that, as the identity of man ; s nature with that of 
the meaner animals is proved by the identity (in all essentials) 
of their organization, as revealed to the anatomical and physi- 
ological inquirer ; so he who can contemplate their actions with 
the unwinking eye of a philosophy, uncompromising — sternly 
faithful to the truth — whose glances can neither be dazzled by 
any false glitter, nor impeded by any fog of language, nor 
cheated by any trickery of logic — whose gaze can be undisturbed 
though he look upon a Gorgon, and can detect, with a sure 
recognition, both the ass in the lion's skin, and the truth how- 
ever dexterously concealed — I say, he who can thus, with an 
utter recklessness and indifference to all things but the truth, 
contemplate and compare the actions of men and animals, will 
readily discover an identity in their conduct, and find an addi- 
tional proof (if such were wanted) of the identity of their 
nature. 

How is the life of an animal, in a state of nature, spent ? In 
seeking for the means of satisfying his natural wants — in 
gratifying his natural appetites and passions — and in providing 
for his young. One animal accomplishes these great necessi- 



TO THINK. 327 

ties of his nature by one set of means, and another by another. 
And into what else are all the actions of men resolvable ? The 
mechanic and labourer, and journeyman tradesman — that, is the 
great bulk of civilized mankind — are constantly engaged from 
morning till night — in doing what ? — is it not in acquiring the 
means of satisfying their natural wants, appetites, and passions, 
and of providing for their young ? And if thwarted in these, 
will they not both (the man and the animal) very properly and 
very justly turn and rend him who opposes them ? 

But it is not necessary to pursue the analogy into all its 
minutiae. Every man's own reflection will enable him easily 
enough to complete it. 

In the discussions, whether political or moral, relative to 
human evil, I would only direct men's attention to the true 
causes. 

In a collection of essays, I lately saw the following little fable. 

" Once upon a time a man, somewhat in drink belike, raised 
a dreadful outcry at the corner of the market-place, that f the 
world was all turned topsy-turvy ; that the men and cattle were 
all walking with their feet uppermost ; that the houses and 
earth at large (if they did not mind it) would fall into the sky ; 
in short, that unless prompt means were taken, things in 
general were on the high road to the devil.' As the people only 
laughed at him, he cried the louder and more vehemently ; nay, 
at last, began objuring, foaming, imprecating, when a good- 
natured auditor, going up, took the orator by the haunches, and 
softly inverting his position, set him down — on his feet. The 
which upon perceiving, his mind was staggered not a little. 
1 Ha ! deuce take it !' cried he, rubbing his eyes, ' so it was 
not the world that was hanging by its feet, then, but I that 
was standing on my head !' " How true ! 

We are perpetually complaining of the perverseness of human 
nature — never perceiving that, de facto, the perverseness lies in 
human art — and not in human nature — who stands as erect and 
firm upon her legs as at the first hour of her birth. How 
foolish ! 

Nature has laid it down as a law that man shall eat till his 
appetite be appeased. Up comes art with her spice-box, and 



328 TO THINK. 

sprinkles his food with a powder which prolongs and provokes 
appetite long after his natural wants are satisfied — and man eats 
himself into an apoplexy. Whereupon art exclaims : " How 
perverse ! How excessively perverse of man, thus to eat him- 
self into an apoplexy \" 

It is a law of nature that man shall scratch himself whenever 
he itches. Art rubs him all over with cowage, which produces 
an itching which is intolerable — and man scratches himself into 
numberless sores. Whereupon art exclaims : " How exces- 
sively perverse of man, thus to scratch himself into sores \" 

There is a perpetual war of art against nature. Nature 
always gets the best of it — and art endeavours to recompense 
herself by lavishing all sorts of ill names upon poor innocent 
human nature ; who, if art did not meddle with her affairs, 
would never trouble her head about the affairs of art. But 
though beaten at every point, art, like an indomitable vixen, 
still returns to the charge ; and, at every repulse, runs crying 
back to her children, exclaiming against the perversity of nature 
because she will not sit quiet and let art cut her throat. 
" Look \" cries she, to her sons and daughters — " look ! how 
that ill-tempered, perverse, base, vile, abominable thing — that 
nasty, good-for-nothing human nature — has scratched my face, 
and torn my clothes, and blackened my poor eyes !" And, 
thereupon, her passion being worked up by the mere enumeration 
of her wrongs, she returns to the attack upon poor, quiet, 
inoffensive human nature, and gets her face scratched again for 
her pains. But as nature was unquestionably the first proprie- 
tor of the soil, and is moreover immeasurably the stronger of 
the two, really I see no manner of reason why art should com- 
plain because nature will not quit her dominions, or any part of 
them, to please this mushroom pretender to her throne. 

"Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret" — that is, 
" you may expel nature with a fork, but she will always return." 
All men admire this line of the old poet. All men acknowledge 
its truth. It is quoted on all hands by men of all parties. 
Wonderful ! that men should dwell with admiration, for ages, 
upon the truth of certain premises, and yet never once think 
of the conclusion to which those premises inevitably lead ! 



TO THINK. 329 

"Wonderful ! that all men should acknowledge that it is fruit- 
less — a mere waste of time — an assured labour in vain — to 
attempt " to expel nature with a fork/' and yet that they should 
continue to pass their whole lives in one long and laborious 
effort "to expel nature with a fork \" 

What are we doings at this moment, with the New Zealanders ? 
We are attempting to " expel nature with a fork." Horace has 
said naturam expellere furca is a labor in vain — and having ex- 
pressed our admiration of the sentiment, and admitted that its 
truth is undeniable, we gravely proceed straight to New Zealand 
for the avowed purpose naturam expellere furca. 

The wise-ones of a by-gone century were earnestly bent on 
" expelling the nature" of the Red Indian of the North Ame- 
rican forest — not indeed "with a fork" — but with fire and 
sword. But here again nature was so unreasonably perverse 
that she would not be expelled. So they expelled the Red 
Indian himself — out of the world. 

One would have supposed this practical commentary on 
Horace's aphorism, would have satisfied mankind of the folly of 
attempting "to expel nature," either with fire or fork. No such 
thing. They are as hotly bent upon the same pursuit now as 
ever. Every man arms himself with a fork, and runs away 
panting and toiling, resolved to poke it into the ribs of nature. 
But somehow or other she constantly eludes his thrust, and 
when he returns from his crusade, he is enraged to find her 
quietly seated again by the hearth of her ancient home. How 
exceedingly perverse of human nature ! 

Public opinion is made up of a chaotic assemblage of 
premises, whose conclusions are in utter hostility to each other. 
Every man's mind is charged with a number of opinions which 
he derives in his youth, without examination, and unconsciously, 
from the society in which he moves, and from the books or 
papers which his position happens to throw first in his way. In 
after life, instead of measuring these opinions by the truth, he 
measures the truth by these opinions. If he meet with any 
new proposition, like that of Horace, which is undeniably true 
on the face of it, he assents to it in a moment — admits it — ■ 
applauds it — quotes it. By and bye, somebody shows him that, 

% A 



330 TO THINK. 

if the new proposition be true, some of his old opinions must 
necessarily be false. "Then," says he, the new proposition 
"cannot be true." "I admitted it too hastily" — "I did not 
perceive its tendency" — and thus he rejects the truth because it 
has a tendency to subvert preconceived opinions. It never 
occurs to him, for a moment, to reject a preconceived opinion 
because it has a tendency to belie the truth. The bare possi- 
bility that his preconceived opinions may be wrong, backed as 
they are by the opinions of society, never for an instant enters 
his mind. He has, therefore, as it seems to him, but one alter- 
native — and that is to reject the new proposition, and to take it 
for granted that it must be false. If, in spite of all he can do, 
it still wear the appearance of truth, he lays the fault on his 
own supposed want of sufficient ingenuity to detect its false- 
hood. Or else he tries to wriggle himself out of the difficulty 
by the hocus-pocus of words. 

If a proposition be made to him which is apparently true, 
and yet manifestly opposed to some preconceived opinion, he 
does not quietly proceed to place them in the scales, wholly 
indifferent as to which prove the heavier, but all his energies 
are instantly and exclusively employed to save his preconceived 
opinion from kicking the beam. He does not look about 
him for arguments equally applicable to both. He only 
looks for arguments calculated to support the one and 
disprove the other. If a man would really arrive at the 
truth, he must look about for arguments to disprove his 
own opinions, with even greater earnestness than he searches for 
arguments to prove them. 

But men estimate the value of opinion as they do money. 
And because a guinea, a thousand times repeated, is a thousand 
times more valuable than a single guinea, they seem to think 
that an opinion, echoed by a thousand tongues, is a thousand 
times more just than if it were the opinion of one man only. 
But when it is remembered that not more than one man in a 
thousand ever doubts or questions his own opinions, nor there- 
fore, ever examines them, the fallacy of this mode of estimating 
their value becomes apparent. 

If any opinion be expressed by a thousand men, on any great 



TO THINK. 331 

moral question, the opinion is probably the opinion of one man 
only. The rest are merely echoes — voces et prseterea nihil. 

But such an opinion can derive no grain of weight from the 
amount of numbers by whom it is professed. It is valuable or 
worthless solely as it is supported, or otherwise, by the testimony 
of nature. 

Men take up a number of opinions, which opinions are, 
in fact, premises leading to conclusions which are at variance. 
And they do this because, in adopting opinions, they do not 
adopt them because they have thoroughly examined them, but 
only because they see them everywhere taken for granted, and 
acted upon by others, and spoken of as things which nobody 
questions. When they do at last meet with any one who 
questions them, and shows that they are at variance one with 
another, they set that man down at once as a quibbler, and his 
arguments as ingenious sophisms, although often compelled to 
acknowledge that they cannot detect wherein the sophistry 
consists. But sophistry there must be somewhere. Why ? 
Only because they are unable to conceive that what are called 
the established opinions of society can possibly be wrong. And 
yet the whole history of society-^what does it exhibit as its very 
prime characteristic ? Why a constant succession of changes of 
opinion. The opinions of yesterday are always wrong — the 
opinions of to-day are always right — and must not be ques- 
tioned. But every to-day must soon become yesterday — and 
every to-morrow must soon become to-day. And when the 
opinions of to-day have become the opinions of yesterday, then 
they will be wrong. And when the opinions of to-morrow shall 
have become the opinions of to-day, then they will be right — 
until they also shall have become the opinions of yesterday — 
and then they will be wrong again. There is nothing perma- 
nent but the laws of nature, and until men shall learn to make 
these the sole foundation of their opinions, their opinions will 
continue to be the same shifting, vacillating, unsubstantial 
wreaths of smoke which they have ever been. 



2 a 2 



332 



CHAPTER X. 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 



The object of Horne Tooke's great work was to show the 
absurdity of the doctrine of abstract ideas. He could not, of 
course, prove by direct proof, that there are no such things as 
abstract ideas ; for no man can prove a negation. For instance, 
if you choose to assert that there is, at this moment, a^horrible 
monster standing at my right hand, with eyes considerably 
larger than tea saucers, a mouth like a baker's oven, and hair 
erect like the quills of an angry porcupine, I cannot prove the 
contrary. I can only make the counter assertion that I cannot 
see it, nor feel it ; and that the supposition of the presence of 
such a monster is contrary to common sense. The onus pro- 
bandi then falls on you. It is for you to prove the presence of 
the monster — not for me to disprove it — for to require me to do 
that, is to require me to perform an acknowledged impossibility 
— that is, to prove a negation. I can easily prove the foolish 
absurdity of the assertion — but I cannot disprove its truth. 

If you choose to assert that a steam-engine can think, I can- 
not disprove the assertion. I can only show that such an 
assertion is wholly gratuitous— that there is no evidence of the 
fact — and that the supposition is ridiculous. I can take you to 
see a steam-engine in full operation, and account to you for all 
its movements. I can point out to you the particular purpose of 
every screw, wheel, and other lever. I can show you how the 
formation of each is adapted to the fulfilment of those purposes. 
I can account to you clearly for the existence of every part of 
the machine, describe to you why each part exists as we see it, 
and show you how the machine must necessarily be imperfect 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

without it. I can also show you that all the operations which 
have ever yet been performed by a steam-engine, can be readily 
accounted for without supposing it to possess any such faculty 
as that of thinking. 

But, when I have done this, if you choose still to persist in 
asserting your belief that a steam-engine can think, I can do no 
more. I have shown that there is no evidence of such faculty 
— I have shown that such faculty is wholly unnecessary in order 
to account for any of the operations of a steam-engine. The 
onus probandi, therefore, rests wholly with you. It is for you 
to bring in evidence of the fact — to show me some operation of 
the steam-engine which cannot be performed without the sup- 
position of a thinking faculty — or to point out to me some 
wheel or screw whose existence would seem to be without an 
adequate object unless we supposed the machine to possess the 
faculty in question. 

It is the same with man. If you choose still to assert your 
belief that man possesses something or other which no other 
animal does, and which you choose still to call mind — and that 
he can do a something or other (besides talking) which no other 
animal can do, and which you choose still to call thinking — I 
cannot prove the contrary with regard to man any more than I 
can with regard to a steam-engine. I have shown what the 
word mind really means, and what the word think really means 
— I have shown what these words were invented for the purpose 
of expressing, how and why they were formed, and what office 
they serve in language ; and that the meaning which you impose 
upon them is one not naturally belonging to them, but entirely 
forced and arbitrary, and wholly unsupported by etymology, 
analogy, or any other the slightest show of reason or necessity. 
I have shown that speech and those senses which we possess in 
common with other animals, are of themselves fully sufficient to 
account (together with the organization of man's hand, and a 
somewhat more elaborate construction, perhaps, of brain — but 
without any additional sense or faculty whatever) — I say I have 
shown that these alone are amply sufficient to account for what- 
ever has yet been done by man — that, therefore, the supposition 
of any other faculty is a perfectly gratuitous supposition — that 



334 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

there is no tittle of evidence of the fact — and that it is, more- 
over, contrary to the information of onr senses. I have shown, 
moreover, that such a supposition involves us in a ridiculous, 
mystical, contradictory, incomprehensible philosophy, which has 
hitherto served no other purpose than of involving men in end- 
less brawling disputes, which can never by any possibility be 
settled, because unsusceptible of any kind of proof. While the 
rejection of so unnecessary and unsupported a supposition 
dispels at once the cloud of metaphysical disputation on these 
two heads — mind and thinking — and makes all clear and intel- 
ligible, without any dispute of any kind. For all men, without 
argument, are as conscious that they can talk and remember as 
they are that they can walk and see the road before them. 

If, however, you choose still to maintain the supposition, I 
cannot disprove it further than I have done — that is, further 
than showing that it is unnecessary and contrary to common 
sense. Which amounts to this— that whatever arguments can 
be brought to prove that a steam-engine cannot think, can 
also be brought to prove that man cannot think — that is, in 
your sense of the word. And finally, that there is as much 
reason to believe a steam-engine can think, as that a man can 
think — once more, in your sense of the word. It will not 
serve your turn at all to say that a steam-engine is made of in- 
organic matter and a man of living matter. This argument will 
not prove that a steam-engine cannot think ; for nothing can 
prove a negation. It is only efficacious to prove that the sup- 
position that a steam-engine can think is gratuitous and 
contrary to common sense ; and is therefore equally available to 
prove that man cannot think. The force of whatever arguments 
can be brought against the supposition that a steam-engine can 
think, must in every instance resolve itself into the fact, that 
such a supposition is unnecessary and without evidence. And I 
have shown that such a supposition with regard to man is 
equally unnecessary and without evidence. 

I intend this as an answer to those who, I know, will be ready 
to cry out — " that because mind signifies that which is remem- 
bered, and to think signifies to talk, it is no proof whatever that 
there may not be a separate being which also goes by the name 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 335 

of mind, and also a faculty, distinct from talking or remember- 
ing, which goes by the name of thinking." Which amounts 
simply to this — that I have not performed an acknowledged 
impossibility — that my arguments have not proved a negation — 
a negation of mind and thinking, distinct from matter, remem- 
bering, and talking. Why, I know that as well as they — I have 
merely proved that the assumption of them is absurd and un- 
necessary. 

Now this is exactly the sort of argument which Home Tooke 
used with regard to the childish doctrine of abstract ideas. He 
took language to pieces, just as you might take any complicated 
machine to pieces. He clearly pointed out to mankind the uses 
of every individual part — he showed how they operated all 
together — explained the great importance of every contrivance — 
and demonstrated how defective the whole machine would be 
without them. 

When he arrived at those words which are supposed to be the 
names of abstract ideas, he showed the absurdity of this sup- 
position by showing its gratuity — by showing that such a 
supposition was not at all necessary in order to account for the 
existence of those words. He showed that these words were 
mere contrivances of language — he showed also the great neces- 
sity of such contrivances — and how extremely defective, and 
indeed wholly inadequate to our wants, language would be with- 
out them. Before Home Tooke' s time, when any one denied 
the existence of abstract ideas, those who favoured the doctrine 
triumphantly inquired : " then how came we by those words which 
we call the names of abstract ideas V 3 Home Tooke answered the 
question. He proved to demonstration how we came by them. 
He showed irrefragably, and with the most wonderful distinct- 
ness, and perspicuity, and astonishing perspicacity, the offices 
which these words perform in language, and also the necessity 
which exists that there should be such words in order to fulfil 
these very offices which he proved they do fulfil. 

In doing this, he left abstraction, as it were, without a house 
to lodge in — nay, without even a peg to hang his hat upon. 
There was, before Home Tooke' s time, as it were, a mansion in 
language without an occupier. Into this mansion metaphysical 



336 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

philosophers inducted this monster called abstraction, rather 
than allow the house to remain empty. But Home Tooke 
brought home the true proprietor, and turned abstraction out 
of doors, who instantly vanished, like an eastern genie, in a 
cloud of smoke — and thus proved himself an impostor. The 
only purpose which abstraction served was to occupy an empty 
house. But the proprietor now occupies his own house, and 
there is therefore no longer any occasion for abstraction. 

If you can understand this clumsy allegory you will easily 
comprehend the nature of Home Tooke's evidence against the 
doctrine of abstract ideas. It consists in showing that there is 
nothing in the nature of language or things to make the 
doctrine of abstraction necessary — that it answers no purpose — 
has no object — is utterly useless — and that we can understand 
everything within the scope of understanding perfectly well 
without it. 

And lastly, that the doctrine itself is wholly incomprehensible, 
nonsensical, and directly opposed to the evidence of our 
senses. 

All those words which were formerly supposed to be the 
names of abstract ideas are merely abbreviations in language for 
the sake of dispatch — abbreviations so necessary to a cultivated 
people that they could scarcely have become cultivated, to any 
great extent, without them. 

I will now show you — I beg the Spectator's pardon — attempt 
to show you, the uses of these abbreviated forms of speech, and 
the reason of their introduction into the languages of all 
civilized communities. 

The greater part of all polished languages consist of single 
words which stand as the signs of whole sentences, just as short 
hand consists of single marks which stand as the signs of whole 
words. And as the marks used in short hand are not the direct 
signs of ideas, but only the signs of words, so those words 
called abstract nouns, as mind, sensation, &c, are not the 
names of ideas, but only abbreviated signs standing as the 
symbols of several other words. 

Civilized language owes the whole of its superior power over 
barbaric languages to these abbreviated signs ; just as algebra 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 337 

owes the whole of its superior power over every other mode 
of computation to the same system of abbreviated signs carried 
to a still greater extent. 

You must here allow me to read to you a very few sentences 
from Darley' s system of algebra, on the use and importance of 
algebraical symbols, as they will afford a very beautiful and 
clear illustration of the use and importance to language of those 
abbreviated symbols of other words, called abstract nouns. 

"Suppose," says Mr. Darley, "we had to write down the 
words hundred, thousand, hundred-thousand ; would it not be 
shorter to write them thus, hund., thou., hund.-thoud. ? — cer- 
tainly. Therefore it would be shorter still to write them thus, 
hd., thd., hd.-thd. — and much shorter to write them thus, h, th, 
h-th. — and a yet further degree of shortness to write them thus 
h, t, h-t, standing respectively for hundred, thousand, hundred- 
thousand. 

In the same manner, if we supposed a to stand for any 
number, say 25 ; b for any other number, 297 ; c for any other, 
4000; and so on, it would be shorter to write down a, b, c, &c, 
than 25, 297, 4000, &c. 

When a person, ignorant of algebra, opens an algebraical 
work, he is astonished, confounded, excited, either to contempt 
or disgust, by the strange assemblage of a's, b's, x's, y's, and 
other letters of the alphabet, of which he can neither divine the 
meaning nor suspect the utility. Here is the solution of the 
mystery — here the explanation of the use. These letters which 
he sees, apparently jumbled together, stand simply for numbers. 

Now this is precisely the case with language — and this the 
doctrine which Home Tooke taught. What Mr. Darley has 
here said with regard to algebraical signs and symbols, may 
be applied, almost word for word, to language — as thus : 
"When a person, ignorant of the nature of language, opens 
a work on moral or political philosophy, or metaphysics, he 
is astonished, confounded, excited, either to disgust or con- 
tempt, by the strange assemblage of words of which he can 
neither divine the meaning nor suspect the utility. Here is the 
solution of the mystery — here the explanation of the use. These 
words stand simply for other words/'' If, therefore, you would 



338 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

come at their meaning, you must translate them into the words 
which they stand for. 

Mr. Darley proceeds : " if it be asked — why not use the 
numbers themselves ? — it is briefly answered — because the let- 
ters are shorter even than these. For example : suppose we 
were to divide a hundred-thousand by twenty-five. How should 
we write this down in numbers? — thus: 25)100,000(4000. 
How should we write it down in letters? — thus (using those 
above) a)ht.(c. 

If it were but for the saving of time, trouble, and stationery, 
is not the latter method of notation preferable ? 

Sometimes, however, it might be convenient to use numbers as 
well as letters in computation : thus, if a stood for a thousand, 
5 a would express five thousand. 

"Algebra is, therefore/' proceeds Mr. Darley, "computation 
performed by letters which stand for numbers" — and language, 
say I, is communication performed by single words which stand 
for whole sentences, Thus, as a may stand for the number 
1000, so the single word mind stands for the whole sentence, 
that which is remembered. And if you want to know the mean- 
ing of a, you must ascertain what those thousand things are 
which are represented by the figures 1000. If they be potatoes, 
then a means 1000 potatoes. So, if you want to know the 
meaning of the word mind — that is, if you want to know what 
mind is — you must ascertain what those things are which are 
remembered — and whatever they are, they, collectively, constitute 
mind. If it were possible that all a man could remember were 
a thousand potatoes, then the word mind, as applied to that 
man, would mean a thousand potatoes, and a thousand potatoes 
would constitute that man's mind. Mr. Darley proceeds ; and 
I beg of you to pay great attention to this. "Readers will 
observe, however, that, in algebra, the same letters do not 
always stand for the same numbers ; but merely for the same 
numbers in the same calculation. Thus, 25 always stands for 
twenty-jive, but a may be supposed to stand for any different num- 
bers, that is, in different calculations. Here is another advan- 
tage of notation by letters over that by numbers ; it would be pro- 
ductive of great confusion—if, in computing, we were to make 25 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

stand for any other number; but a letter., having no precise signifi- 
cation, may represent anything whatever without inconvenience. 
So that the use of numbers is confined, while that of letters is 
almost wholly unrestricted. - " What a simple and true and 
beautiful illustration of the nature and use of abstract nouns 
this is ! Let us again apply this, Mr. Darley's illustration of 
the use of algebraical abbreviations, to the abbreviations of 
language. Almost the very same words will do again. " Readers 
will observe, however, that in language the same words (abstract 
nouns) do not always stand for the same things ; but only for 
the same things in the same argument. In the following, and 
such phrases — "I have received a transmission through the 
post" — the word transmission always stands for the sentence 
"that which has been sent through." But as the sentence, "that 
which has been sent through," has no precise signification, but 
may refer to anything whatever which have been sent through 
some means or other, therefore the word transmission, although 
it always means "that which has been sent through," may 
yet represent anything whatever, provided only it be something 
which has been sent through something else. Here, then, is 
another advantage of a language possessing these abbreviated 
forms of speech, over one which has them not. It would be 
productive of great confusion if, in conversation, we were to 
make words which are the direct signs of things — as table, car- 
pet, house, horse, stand sometimes for one thing and sometimes 
for another; but an abbreviated form of speech — an abstract 
noun, as it is foolishly called — like the word transmission, not 
denoting any specific, sensible object, except the words of which it 
is the symbol, may represent anything whatever, without inconve- 
nience, provided only it be something which has been sent through 
something else. So that a language without these abbreviations 
is confined, while that which possesses them is almost wholly un- 
restricted." I might easily, and very properly, carry out the 
parallel still more minutely. For as the algebraical letters a, b, c, 
are but abbreviated signs representing any number, as 1 00, 2000, 
&c. — so these 100, 2000, &c. are themselves only abbreviated 
signs of the words one hundred, two thousand, &c. And so 
also, as the word transmission is only an abbreviated sign, 



340 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

representing the sentence, " that which has been sent through" 
— in like manner the sentence, "that which has been sent 
through," is itself only an abbreviated form of speech. For 
in this sentence the word that is only an abbreviated sign of 
the name of the thing sent, whatever it happen to be — say a 
letter. And the word sent is also only an abbreviated sign of 
all those words which would be necessary to detail the various 
operations concerned in the process of sending a letter — such as 
delivering the letter to the bearer, the motions performed by the 
bearer in receiving and carrying off the letter, &c, &c. 

Mr. Darley proceeds : " the whole power of computation may 
be said to lie in the brevity of its language, and to be apportioned 
thereto. Algebra, for instance, uses a shorter language than 
arithmetic, and is proportionally a more powerful species of 
computation." All this applies exactly to language, thus : iC the 
whole power of language may be said to lie in the brevity of its 
forms of expression, and to be apportioned thereto. A culti- 
vated language, for instance, uses a shorter form of expression 
than a barbaric one, and is proportionally a more powerful 
medium of communication." Mr. Darley again — " independent, 
however, of the acquisition of power, convenience alone would 
dictate the utility of an abbreviated language in every science." 
This is perfectly true — as true with regard to cultivated lan- 
guage in general, as with regard to the language of science 
only. For as, in the science of astronomy, it furnishes us with 
such words as gravitation, culminating, apogee, perigee — in 
chemistry, with affinity, oxygen, hydrogen, binary, ternary, &c. 
— in anatomy, with cribriform, xiphoid, °&c, &c. ad infinitum — 
so, in ordinary conversation, it furnishes us with such words as 
station, motion, action, conversation, virtue, vice, right, wrong, 
&c. &c. ad infinitum iterum. 

Mr. Darley goes on : " thus, in ordinary language, the fol- 
lowing statement, five added to nine is equal to fourteen, is 
sufficiently tedious. In common arithmetic it would be more 
briefly written, 5 added to 9 is equal to 14. But it may be still 
more briefly expressed by putting some mark for the words "is 
equal to," and also another for the words " added to." Sup- 
pose we put two short parallel lines = for the first, and a cross 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 341 

+ for the second; then the statement would take this most 
concise form, 5 -j- 9 = 14. Now such, in fact, are the marks 
used throughout algebra for the above words or ideas." Now 
to apply all this to language : " thus, in a language not highly 
cultivated, the following statement, "I have received a something 
which was sent to me by the men employed by the government 
to carry things from people living in one part of the kingdom 
to people living in another" — is sufficiently tedious. How much 
more conveniently may this be expressed by putting some 
single word for the sentence " a something which was sent to 
me by;" and also another for the sentence "the men 
employed by government to carry things from people living in 
one part of the kingdom to people living in another." Sup- 
pose we put the single word transmission for the first sentence, 
and the single word post for the second. Then the statement 
would take this most concise form — " I have received a trans- 
mission by post." Here you see the one word transmission 
represents the whole sentence, " a something which has been sent 
to me by" And the single word post, consisting of but four 
letters, represents the whole sentence, " the men employed by 
government to carry things from people living in one part of 
the kingdom to people living in another." The condensation 
of power, you cannot help observing, is astonishingly great. 

Now then, if you have been able to follow this parallel, 
you will instantly perceive that the question, " what is trans- 
mission ?" is just as absurd as the question, "what is at" would 
be. For as a is only the sign of certain figures, say 372 ; and as 
these figures may be the sign of anything whatever ; it is per- 
fectly clear that I cannot tell you what a is or means, until you 
have told me what figures it stands for ; nor can I tell you even 
then, until you have told me the particular names of the things 
which the figures stand for. But if you tell me that the figures 
stand for horses, then a signifies 372 horses. And, in like 
manner, as the word transmission is only the sign of certain 
other words, say, "that which has been sent;" and as these other 
words may refer to anything whatever, provided only it be 
" something sent," it is perfectly manifest that I cannot tell you 
what transmission is or means, until you have told me what 



342 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

are the other words which it stands for ; nor even then, until 
you have also told me the particular name or names of the 
thing or things to which those other words refer. But if you 
tell me that those other words refer to a letter received by post, 
then the word transmission signifies a letter received by post. 

11 1 have received a transmission by post." What are you 
the wiser for this information ? Extremely little. For all that 
you know is, that I have received something by post. But 
what ? You cannot tell. It may be a letter — a bank note — a 
blank envelope — a watch ribbon. 

From all this it is broadly manifest that general terms are not 
the signs of ideas — that nothing can be the signs of ideas but 
particular names, of which general terms are but the abbreviated 
signs, resorted to for the sake of dispatch and convenience, like 
the algebraical signs a, b, c — x, y, z. 

I have already shown you that the question, C( what is trans- 
mission V is as justly absurd as the question, what is a ? would 
be. And the questions — what is mind ? — what is sensation ? — 
what is honor ? — are, of course, just as absurd as the question, 
" what is transmission V and for precisely the same reason. 
For these are all general terms — abbreviated symbols of other 
words — as a, b, c, are the algebraical symbols of numbers — 
and I cannot answer the questions until these symbols have 
been translated into the words which they stand for. 

The word honor, therefore, like the word transmission, has no 
meaning at all, until he who uses it has told us of what other 
words he makes the word honor the symbol, 

What, then, is honor ? The question is foolish, futile, with- 
out significancy. It is a, or b, or c — a mere sound vacant of 
all meaning, and only waiting in readiness to receive any 
meaning with which he who uses it may choose to invest it. It 
is a mere symbol which any man may take, and, in his conver- 
sation or writings, make it stand for whatever sentence he 
pleases. The peasant makes it stand for one set of words, the 
city tradesman for another, the aristocrat for a third. With the 
one it stands for punctuality in meeting all payments. With 
the aristocrat, for readiness to go out to fight on receiving an 
insult. That combination of letters forming the word honor is 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 343 

a symbol which every man may use as he pleases, and make 
stand for whatever combination of words he pleases — just as the 
algebraist may take the letter a and make it stand for whatever 
combination of numbers he pleases. But the algebraist, having 
once determined what particular number it shall stand for in 
that calculation, must continue to make it stand for that same 
number throughout the whole of that same process of compu- 
tation. Otherwise all will be confusion and error, and he can 
arrive at no result. And so a man in writing on any one sub- 
ject, having once determined on what other words he will make 
the word honor stand for, must continue to make it stand for 
those same words all through his reasonings on that same sub- 
ject. Otherwise, all will be confusion and error, and he can 
work out no result, nor make himself understood. 

At the commencement of every algebraical operation, the 
operator states the numbers for which, all through the ope- 
ration, he intends to make each particular letter stand. He 
then works on unerringly to a sure result. And it is because 
philosophers do not do this with regard to the symbols of 
language, from their absurdly supposing that all men use the 
same symbols to stand for the same combinations of words — 
and because they do not themselves even make the same 
symbols stand for the same combination of words throughout 
the whole of the same argument — which has been productive of 
so much inextricable philosophical confusion. It would be very 
troublesome, however, to preface every work with an explanation 
of the symbols used all through the book. And yet it is 
perfectly impossible for any philosophical work to be intelligible 
unless this be done, at least with regard to all the important 
words bearing more immediately on the subject ; or else, unless 
every important word be used strictly in its etymological sense. 

Language has this important superiority over computation by 
algebraical signs. In the letters a, b, c, there is nothing 
whatever to show the reader what they stand for — and therefore 
it is, that it is necessary, at the outset of every operation, to 
state what they stand for. But, in the symbols of language, 
there is a very manifest something which can always show the 
reader what each one stands for, provided men will only use 



344 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

them to stand for those words or sentences, in order to stand 
for which they were expressly invented. If they would do this, 
there would be no necessity to define them at the outset of a 
work. There is in each of these symbolical words a meaning 
which the very formation of the word makes inherent and 
visible in the word itself. Why not always use the signs 
accordingly with these their natural meanings ? I mean, of 
course, in all important philosophical arguments. There are 
some, it is true, whose etymologies have been lost. With 
regard to such, the first time one of these occurs, the writer or 
speaker should explain the words which he makes that sign 
stand for, and then continue to use it in that sense solely 
throughout the whole of that particular argument. What 
infinite confusion and interminable disputations would this 
avoid ! How easy would it render the detection of error ! And 
how difficult (almost impossible) would it then be for writers to 
deceive either themselves or their readers ! Bound down by the 
strong fetters of a fixed definition, which must stand unalterable 
throughout the whole of that argument, all the tortuosities of 
sophistry, the crooked paths of a false logic, and the shifting 
and shadowy colouring and changes of phraseology, and the 
shading off and imperceptible sliding of one meaning into 
another, could no longer avail — and nothing would be left to 
the reasoner, but to pursue, like the algebraist, a straight path 
to an inevitable result — whether that result were such as he 
expected or not. 

When a man is reading, there is constantly going on within 
him a rapid process of translation. He translates, as he goes 
along, these abbreviated symbols, of which I am speaking, into 
that which they stand for in his own mind. But these symbols 
are intended to convey that which they stand for in the mind of 
the writer! But this the reader cannot, by any possibility, 
know — otherwise than by guessing from the nature of the 
context. When a man meets with the word right, he translates 
it into that which it stands for in his own mind. But there is 
no possibility of knowing whether or not it stands for the same 
things in the mind of him who wrote the word — and this 
happens for want of a common standard by which the meanings 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 345 

of such, symbols may be regulated. Such a common standard 
is to be found in etymology and in etymology alone — which 
stamps each of these symbols with one uniform and visible 
meaning. 

It is no objection to this to say that the majority of readers 
do not understand etymology. If they do not understand the 
language in which they converse, they have no business either to 
argue in it, or to presume to judge of the arguments of others. 
If they do not understand their mother tongue, let them study 
it till they do, and refrain from taking part in any kind of argu- 
ment until they have done so. Surely it cannot be thought too 
much to require that a man should understand the language in 
which he writes or speaks ! or the language of those books 
which he reads for instruction ! But besides this, does he under- 
stand them as it is ? No — the only difference is this — now it 
is not possible to understand them — while, in the case supposed, 
it would be not only possible, but extremely easy — nothing more 
being necessary than that every Englishman who writes, or 
reasons, or reads the reasonings of other Englishmen, should 
understand the English language! Is this too much to require? 
And is any man fit to argue, or to read the arguments of another, 
who does not understand the language in which the arguments 
are conducted ? Or if he do read and argue without under- 
standing the language which he uses and reads, can he possibly 
profit himself or others ? This difficulty about etymology is a 
mere bugbear, for if the spelling-books of schools, and the 
common dictionaries, would be content to give all the known 
and unquestionable etymologies of words as the meanings of those 
words, instead of committing that stupid and really idiot error 
of attempting to explain one symbol by another symbol, only 
because different authors have chosen to use the same symbols 
indifferently as the signs of different things — just as one 
algebraist may use a to express the number 100, and another 
may use the same letter to express the number 313 — the diffi- 
culty would disappear at once. But dictionary-makers, instead 
of interpreting these symbols into the words which they 
stand for etymologically, only tell us that Mr. So and So 
used this symbol instead of such and such other symbol ; and 

% B 



346 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

Mr. Somebody else used it in the place of such and such another 
symbol. This is as though the author of a dictionary of 
algebraical signs and symbols should say that a sometimes 
means b, only because he has discovered that some algebraists 
use a to denote 100, while others use b to denote the same 
number. A, says he, (under the head of a) means b — and b, 
says he, (under the head of b) means a. Lucid expositor ! 
Right, says Dr. S. Johnson, (under the head of right) means 
not wrong — and wrong, says he, (under the head of wrong) 
means not right. Admirable lexicographer ! 

It is true that, if it should once become the fashion to listen 
to no argument, and to read no book but such as are couched in 
an intelligible language, the whole class of half-educated men 
would be excluded from the arena of argumentation. But as 
those who talk in a language which they do not understand can 
but brawl, and bandy words, and " gabble like things most 
brutish," what possible benefit can accrue either to themselves 
or others by admitting them into the field of dispute ? Whoso 
desires to enter that field, let him qualify himself to do so. 

But if an author desire to write so as to be intelligible to all 
classes, whether educated or not, I say he may do so in matters 
of general philosophy, as I have already said he may do in the 
more exact sciences. And this is only to be achieved by abolishing 
as much as possible the use of these abbreviated symbols 
altogether, and using no important words but such as are the 
direct signs of ideas. This will compel him to speak nothing 
but common sense — which is level with the capacity of all 
mankind. 

But if it be thought too much to require that a man who 
talks English should understand English — then in all important 
reasonings let it become the practice to set down at the beginning, 
accordingly with the advice of Lord Bacon and John Locke, clear 
and succinct definitions of all those words whose sense is neces- 
sary to make the argument intelligible. 

I need not say that all this does not apply to mere chit-chat 
conversation, nor to books whose sole object is amusement. 
Though it would certainly be better to talk correctly even on 
these occasions. 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 347 

But there are some few important words whose etymologies 
may not be manifest. When these words become the subject of 
argument, a clear definition of the sense in which the author 
uses them should be given. 

I am now about to show you some of the absurdities which 
have arisen from not understanding the true use of these sym- 
bolical abbreviations, and to explain shortly their nature, and 
the purpose which they serve in language. A very large 
number of them are borrowed from the Latin and Greek — 
partly because those languages are more ductile, more easily 
moulded into different forms of speech, than ours — and partly 
from the convenient cloak which they afford wherewith to con- 
ceal from the ignorant and incurious the no-meaning of certain 
writers and speakers — and in order to invest the domain of 
sophistry with a fogginess of atmosphere that may serve to con- 
ceal the nakedness of the land. 

Now then for our abstract ideas. 

Amongst those words which are said to be the names of 
abstract ideas, are those denoting what are called the qualities of 
bodies. Quality, therefore, is said to be one of these same 
abstract ideas. Let us see whether we can find it. 

The first thing to be done is to ascertain to what language the 
word quality belongs, and then to translate it into an exactly 
equivalent one in our own tongue. It is a Latin word — and the 
English words which exactly answer to it are howness, whatness, 
or what-sort-of-a-thing-ness — which words, (although the last, I 
confess, is neither very elegant nor convenient) no man dare 
deny to be as strictly and properly English words, and manu- 
factured according to as strict an analogy, as any one word 
ending in ness throughout the whole range of the English lan- 
guage. And even the last, harshly as it will sound to modern 
ears, and consisting as it does of six different words strung 
together, and the whole made into one noun substantive by the 
addition of the termination ness, is formed exactly on the same 
principle on which numbers of other words are formed, both in 
modern and ancient English — that is, Anglo-Saxon — viz., by 
stringing a number of words together, and making the whole 
into one word by adding a terminating syllable. Thus, we get 

2 b 2 



348 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

the modern word prceantepenultimate — that is, prce-ante-pen- 
ultimate — and thus was made the Anglo-Saxon word gemindig- 
licnys — that is, ge-min- d-ig-lic-nys. The only reason, therefore, 
why my new word whatsortofathingness seems strange and 
awkward is merely because it has never been adopted, the Latin 
word quality having been borrowed to supply its place, as being 
more neat and brief. 

The feminine ablative of the Latin pronoun qui, is qua, and 
signifies by what means, in what manner, of what sort, or what 
sort of a thing. But they wanted, for the convenience of diction, 
to express these same ideas in the form of an adjective. So 
they tacked the termination lis to the end of qua, and thus got 
the adjective qualis, still signifying of what sort, but with a 
termination which showed that it was intended to be joined to 
another word, just as we add the termination en to the word 
gold, in order to show that the word gold is to be added to 
some other word — as, a golden cross — indicating that the idea 
represented by the word gold is to be added to the idea repre- 
sented by the word cross. 

Having thus made an adjective out of the pronoun, they then 
proceeded, for a similar convenience of diction, to make a noun 
out of the adjective, by once more changing the termination ; 
and thus they got the noun qualitas ; which we, by once more 
changing the termination, made into the English noun quality. 
But it is quite self-evident that the mere addition of a termination 
to a word can subtract nothing from the meaning of that word. 
The addition of en can surely subtract nothing from the mean- 
ing of the word gold ! Neither can the addition of lis to the 
pronoun qua subtract anything from the meaning of qua, which 
is, of what sort, or what sort of a thing. The adjective qualis, 
therefore, is still only the pronoun qua altered in form, and still 
continues to convey the same meaning. 

"Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poeta, 

Quale sopor fessis in gramine, quale per aestum 

Dulcis aquae saliente sitim restinguere rivo." — Virg. Eel. 5. 

That is — what sort of a thing sleep is to weary men stretched on 

the grass — what sort of a .thing it is, on a hot summer's day, to 

quench one's thirst at a leaping river of sweet water — that sort 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 349 

of a thing, divine poet, is thy verse to me. That is, the 
effect of thy verse on me is like — that is, is of the same sort as 
— that is, as sweet and refreshing as — sleep to the weary, or 
fresh water to the thirsty. 

The same meaning precisely, you will perceive, still adheres 
to the adjective which was inherent in its root, the pronoun 
qua ; and that the alteration in the form of the word, from the 
form of pronoun to the form of adjective, does nothing more 
than enable us to express the same ideas in a variety of ways, 
for the mere convenience of diction. 

Of the adjective qualis, they made the adverb qualiter, which 
signifies after what sort, and qualitercunque, after what-sort- 
soever, and qualitas, which signifies what-sort-ness, or what-sort- 
of-a-thing-ness, or, as we more neatly express it, quality. 

I will now show you that my new word what-sort-of-a-thing- 
ness is perfectly capable of supplying the place of our modern 
Latin-English word quality. 

" What sort of thing is that horse you bought yesterday V 9 
11 He is lame in the off-shoulder, blind of the off-eye, and has 
corns on his near fore-foot." " It serves you right. You should 
have ascertained the what-sort-of-thing-ness of the brute before 
you paid for him." Would not any clown in Christendom un- 
derstand this language, as well, nay better, than the word 
quality? I maintain that the word what-sort-of-thing-ness is, 
in every respect, the exact, and proper, and literal English 
translation of the Latin word quality, and that whatever ideas 
are expressed by the one word are also contained in the other, 
and that if the word quality be the name of one single, abstract 
idea, so also is the word what-sort-of-thing-ness — the two 
words being no more than a literal translation one of the other. 
But the word what-sort-of-thing-ness is not a word, but a sen- 
tence ; and cannot therefore be the sign of any isolated idea, but 
of several ideas. And I, moreover, say that, wherever the 
word quality is used, it is merely a symbol, adopted for the sake 
of brevity, and stands for the whole sentence above mentioned, 
just as a may be made, by an algebraist, to stand for the figures 
2470. And that in order to understand the meaning of the 
word quality, it must be translated into the words which it stands 



350 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

for — as the sign a, before it can be understood, must be trans- 
lated into the figures which it stands for. And that when the 
word quality is so used that it cannot bear this translation into 
the words which it stands for so as to make sense, then it has 
received an arbitrary meaning from him who has so used it, which 
arbitrary meaning the word is incapable of communicating to 
the mind of another, and thus has lost its power and utility as a 
word. 

To show you the manner in which words are formed, I will 
give you a familiar instance or two, I will take two from 
Shakspere. In his play of Macbeth occur these lines : 
" Which often, since my here-remain in England, 
I have seen him do." 
And again — 

u Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, 
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, 
All ready at a point, was setting forth/'' 
Now is it not perfectly clear that had these two words, the 
adverb here and the verb remain, which Shakspere, by a hyphen, 
has made into a noun, been taken from a foreign language, so 
that the separate meaning of each word was not recognised — is 
it not clear, I say, that this norm here-remain would have taken 
its place (and indeed I see not how it is to escape even now) 
among abstract nouns, and so have been said to be the sign of 
an abstract idea ? Let us see if we cannot coin this word here- 
remain, by help of the Latin language, into a neater kind of word, 
and one too which shall be perfectly analogous to scores of 
others already coined in the same manner from the same lan- 
guage. When I have done this, you will perceive in a moment, 
how liable we shall be, if we don't mind, to be all at once 
cheated of its true meaning — only by having the dust of a 
foreign language thrown in our eyes. 

Our word permanence is made of the Latin preposition per, 
which signifies through, and manens, which is the present par- 
ticiple of the Latin word maneo, which signifies, / remain. Per- 
manens, or, as we write it in English, permanence, therefore, 
signifies remaining through — that is, through time. Now the 
Latin adverb answering to our adverb here, is hie. By taking 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 351 

therefore, (as in the case of the word permanence) the Latin 
word manens, which I have just said signifies remaining, and 
placing before it the Latin word hie — here — instead of the Latin 
word per — through — we shall thus get Shakspere's noun here- 
remain translated into Latin, and thus acquire a new word, 
made on the model of our common word permanence, and, in 
all respects, just as good. The word will be hic-manens or hie- 
manence, and will be merely the English word here-remain 
clothed in a Latin tunic. But is it possible to conceive that 
Shakspere's good English noun here-remain can have lost any 
part of its meaning by having been thus smuggled and meta- 
morphosed out of one language into another? Can any sen- 
sible and thoughtful man suffer himself to be hocus-pocus' d out 
of his senses after this fashion ? And surely it is equally clear 
that if, by thus lifting an English noun out of the English lan- 
guage into the Latin language, the word still retains its English 
meaning ; so also the merely lifting a Latin noun, like qualitas, 
out of the Latin language into the English, can work no alter- 
ation whatever in its signification. 

I will now just give you one instance of the manner in which 
we are daily in the habit of making and using adjectives without 
knowing it. In a newspaper, the other day, I met with this 
advertisement, than the style of which nothing can be more fre- 
quent. " The Licensed Victualler's and general Fire and Life 
Assurance Company, having effected an arrangement with the 
British and Colonial Life Assurance and Trust Society, the 
business of the two offices will, for the future, be conducted 
under one management ." Now here the words " Fire-and-Life- 
Assurance" are all strung together, and do, in fact, form one 
adjective, which is coupled with the noun company, just as any 
other adjective might be, and for the same purpose, viz. of join- 
ing certain ideas of things with certain other ideas of other 
things. As this adjective stands (fire-and-life-assurance) in 
plain, broad, naked English, no one can doubt that it is the 
sign of several ideas of things — although, before Home Tooke's 
time, it was denied, and sworn to, that adjectives were not and 
could not be the signs of the ideas of things — and all sorts of 
the most abominable trash, by such men as Mr. Harris, were 



352 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

written about them, to try and make intelligible to others that 
which was wholly unintelligible to themselves — just as men are 
still labouring to make intelligible to others their notions about 
the meaning of such words as justice, right, mind, moral dignity, 
intellectual elevation, and such like, but which they can never 
succeed in doing, because they do not understand themselves — 
but, I say, by means of a little hocus-pocus, I can conjure this 
awkward word a fire-and-life~assurance" into a very decent Eng- 
lish word, and having so close a resemblance to other English 
adjectives in ordinary use, that such philosophers as Mr. Harris, 
my Lord Brougham, and the Spectator, might be very easily 
persuaded to believe that it was not the sign of any ideas what- 
ever. Let us see. The Latin for fire is ignis — for life, vita— 
and to make firm and secure — that is, to assure — is, in Latin, 
affirmare. All these stitched neatly together will make a very 
pretty English adjective, as thus — ignivit affirmative. We have 
affirmative already. And why not vitaffirmative ? And if this 
be allowed (and it is impossible, with any show of reason, to 
disallow it) then why not also ignivit a ffir mativ e ? Now here, 
you see, when the English adjective has endued the Latin tunic, 
we are in great danger of losing its meaning altogether. And 
if it be necessary to look sharp into the nature and formation of 
this word in order to ascertain its meaning, and make it a 
useful word, and to prevent us from falling into the error of 
supposing that the word is not expressive of any definite ideas, 
so also must it be equally necessary with regard to all other 
words whatever. And if the looking into the nature and 
formation of this one word is sufficient to secure us from all 
error, and to make the word a useful and intelligible and un- 
mistakeable sign of certain definite ideas, the same habit will 
afford us an equal security with regard to every other word. 

Now, you know, by adding the termination ness to the adjec- 
tive talkative, we get the abstract noun talkativeness — to sublime, 
sublimeness — to philoprogenitive, philoprogenitiveness — to res- 
tive, restiveness— to submissive, submissiveness, &c— therefore 
by adding the same termination ness to our new adjective ig- 
nivitaffirmative, we shall get the abstract noun ignivit affir- 
mativeness* Now scholars— that is, such scholars as he of 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 353 

the Spectator — may tell us, if they please, that this word is the 
name of an abstract idea. But I say it is the sign of the Eng- 
lish words fire and life assurance. 

The members of the House of Commons are rare hands at the 
manufacture of new adjectives. Thus they give us — the (Ca- 
tholic-emancipation) bill — the (municipal-corporations) bill — the 
(abolition-of-imprisonment -for -debt) bill. I wish they would give 
us one more, and call it the (provision-of-abstract-philosophers- 
with common-sense) bill. 

But the advertisement before-mentioned concludes thus : 
" the business of the two offices will for the future be conducted 
under one management.' 3 Now, because the adjective one is ap- 
plied to the word management, they may tell us that the word 
must be the sign of one abstract idea. But I say it is the sign or 
symbol of all the names of the directors, clerks, collectors, &c. 
&c. who carry on the business of the before-mentioned two 
companies. As a may be the sign of some dozen or score of 
figures, which figures are the sign of some dozen or score of 
things, so management is the sign of the names of the directors, 
clerks, &c. which names are the signs of certain particular men 
who manage the affairs of these companies. A Roman philo- 
sopher might as well have asserted that one letter must be half 
a dozen letters, because the Romans used the plural words unce 
Uteres to signify " one letter. " We give a plural form to our 
word one as well as the Romans did to their word unus. We 
say : " I have one black hen and half-dozen white — ones." Now 
the Spectator — 

B. 

Have done with the Spectator ! can you never forgive an 
injury ? Let him alone ! and quietly "redeat in nihilum quod 
fu.it ante nihil." 

A. 

'"Requiescat in pace" as the undertakers have it. But he 
has never injured me — he only tried to do it. Have you for- 
gotten the old school pun — " laudatur ab hiss ! culpatur ab 
illis V 3 True, he called me " self-sufficient sciolist," and sun- 
dry other euphonious appellations " too numerous to mention." 
But "hard names break no bones," and the other periodicals 



354 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

have not followed his lead. Even the Examiner, having cracked 
his joke at the beginning of his notice, and scolded me for not 
having confounded chronology with history, concludes by admit- 
ting that my design is good, and that, if I can execute it, I 
shall do " good service." They have not, I say, followed the 
Spectator's lead — they have not appreciated his example — they 
have cruelly 

" Left him alone in his glory !" 

f Ecce homo/ cries the passer-by — and echo answers, f Ecce 
homo V — which, being translated for the Spectator's special in- 
struction, signifies : " Behold ! the man who fished for a flat, 
and caught a Tartar" — and echo answers, " caught a Tartar V 9 

B. 

You forget the Monthly, which, it is true, we have neither of 
us seen ; but which, I am told, out-spectatored the Spectator. 

A. 

True — the Monthly I had entirely forgotten. So then there 
are, not one, but two — "par nobile fratrum" — who aspired to 
become "Ay w xoa-^Yjrops \uoov" — which means " two little Davids 
with two little slings, who aspired to become two little Goliahs" 
— an attempt in which many a better man than either of them 
has failed — " many a time and oft." 

Nevertheless, I cannot part with my Spectator — he is my sym- 
bol- — my abstract noun — which you know is the sign of an ab- 
stract idea — which is the sign of nothing. The nine letters com- 
posing Spectator are to me what the letters of the alphabet are to 
the algebraist — what the symbols I have been speaking of are to 
language — what the word management is as it stands in the ad- 
vertisement so often mentioned. That word, you know, is the 
symbol which stands in the minds of men as the sign of the 
names of all the gentlemen who conduct the business of the two 
companies. And Spectator is the symbol which stands in my 
mind as the sign of all those who — " mistake fustian for philo- 
sophy." No — I cannot part with my Spectator. 

Thus I have shown you that the word quality is nothing more 
than the Latin word qualitas, and that qualitas is nothing more 
than quale, and that quale is nothing more than qua, the femi- 
nine ablative of the Latin pronoun qui, and signifies, what sort 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 355 

of thing, or what manner of thing. I have shown you too the 
broad and grinning absurdity of supposing that, by merely 
altering the termination of a word, and lifting it out of one lan- 
guage into another, the meaning of that word can be, in any 
manner, changed. I have shown you that the same ideas are 
still clearly expressed, whether we use Shakspere's English noun 
" here-remain" or whether we use the Latin form hicmanence — 
whether we use the Latin form permanence, or the English form, 
remaining through time — whether we use the English form, 
Fire and Life Assurance, or the Latin form ignivitaffirmative. 
And herein I have proved the extraordinary and grotesque 
absurdity of the doctrine of abstract ideas. For the very same 
men who will tell you that the word permanence is the name of 
an abstract idea, dare not, for their lives, deny that permanence 
signifies remaining through time, and that remaining through time 
signifies permanence. And having thus been compelled to 
admit that the two forms of speech mutually signify the same 
thing, they then proceed to declare that they signify different 
things, by telling us that the word permanence signifies an 
abstract idea, while the sentence, remaining through time, is 
clearly the sign of all the ideas represented by those three words, 
whatever they may chance to be. It is the same with quality. 
No one dare deny that the word what-sort-of-thing-ness, however 
awkward it sounds, is the plain and literal translation of qualitas 
— nor will any one dare deny that qualitas and quality are one 
word. Yet, when the meaning of qualitas (let it be what it will) 
is expressed by the word quality, they call it (the meaning) an 
abstract idea. But when it (the same meaning) is expressed by 
the words what-sort-of-thing-ness, they are compelled to admit 
that it (the same meaning, which they before called an abstract 
idea) is made up of all those ideas which are expressed by all 
those separate words which compose the noun what-sort-of-thing- 
ness. So again, if the word ignivitaffirmativeness should come to 
be adopted into the English tongue, as a word of precisely 
similar structure has been, viz., philoprogenitiveness, both words 
being, in fact, whole sentences, (the one Greek, the other Latin) 
then, when the meaning of ignivitaffirmativeness (whatever it be) 
is expressed by this one long word, they would say it is the 



356 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

name of an abstract idea ; but when the same meaning was 
expressed by the English compound word, or sentence, Fire and 
Life Assurance, then they must perforce admit that it is not the 
sign of an abstract idea — for the word fire, at all events, is 
certainly the sign of a sensible object. 

I have shown you, too, that when a certain meaning, or set 
of ideas, is in you, which you desire to put into another man, 
you may either effect your object by using the word quality, or 
what-sor t-of -thing -ness — proving, beyond the possibility of 
question, that the two words are two mutually interchangeable 
signs, both pointing alike to one and the same identical mean- 
ing — and that, if quality be the name of an abstract idea, so also 
must the whole sentence what-sort-ofthing-ness be the name 
of an abstract idea — and all the separate words composing it, by 
merely being strung together, or uttered quickly, one after the 
other, must have all at once lost their meaning, and ceased, by 
some unaccountable and mystical operation, to be the signs of 
any ideas at all. 

If, in speaking to you of a horse which I shot, I say : " he 
was a kicker, a roarer, a crib-biter ; he had a quitter, was blind, 
lame and spavined" — and if I proceed thus : " and I shot him 
because of these bad qualities" — is it not perfectly clear that the 
word quality is here used merely to save me the trouble of 
repeating the words : " he was a kicker, he was a roarer, he was 
a" &c. Is it not perfectly indifferent to the sense whether I 
say, " I shot him because of these bad qualities," or that I shot 
him " because he was a kicker, a crib-biter," &c. ? And in 
telling you that he was a kicker, a roarer, &c, what have I done? 
Why, I have merely told you to what sort of horses he belonged 
— and that I shot him because it was of that sort. I have told 
you that he was of that sort of horses who kick, who roar, &c. 

" He was a kicker, a roarer, a crib-biter, &c. — had it not been 
that he was a roarer, a kicker, a crib-biter, &c. — or, possessed 
these qualities — he would have been a valuable horse ; but I 
think every horse which is a kicker, a roarer, a crib-biter, &c. 
&c— or, has these qualities — should be shot. I would on no 
account either use myself, or sell to another, a horse that was a 
kicker, a roarer, a crib -biter, &c. &c. — or, had these qualities." 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 357 

You may either use the abbreviated symbol, or the sentences 
which it stands for. It is quite indifferent as to the sense, but 
by no means so as to convenience and brevity. There are no 
ideas which we cannot communicate without the use of this word 
quality, though not so conveniently as with it. When, there- 
fore, we gained the word quality we gained no new idea, but only a 
shorter and more convenient form of speech, by which to com- 
municate the same ideas which we could have communicated 
without it, but only not so briefly. 

The algebraist makes the letter a stand for any number — say 
ten thousand — and in the sentences about the horse, we make 
the word quality stand for all the words, " he is a crib-biter," 
&c. &c. There is no difference whatever. 

I observe on my pencil case the words " Mordan and Co." 
Now, what is Co. ? This is just as sensible a question as " what 
is quality V 3 And is just as much the sign of an abstract idea. 
Co. is an abbreviated symbol, and stands for company. ' The 
greater part of all polished languages consist of words which are 
exactly similar to this word Co. 

If, before this word quality was introduced into our language, 
and while we had no other single word answering to it, we could 
nevertheless convey all the ideas without it which we can now 
convey by means of it ; the sun at noon-day cannot be clearer 
than that this word quality is not the sign of any idea, but only 
a symbol of other words. This seems to me to be perfectly 
unanswerable. 

B. 

But have not modern philosophers given up the doctrine of 
abstract ideas ? 

A. 

No — they say they have — but they have not. For if they 
had, how could they go on talking as they do, of the ideas of 
thinking, ideas of figure, of rest, of motion, of knowing of willing, 
of mind, &c. ? They admit that there are no such things as 
abstract ideas, and then proceed to prate about them as though 
their existence was unquestionable. They admit the general 
principle, that there are no such things as abstract ideas, and 
then deny the several 'particulars of which that general is made 



358 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

up. They admit that yonder basket is filled with potatoes, and 
not apples, and then, taking them out one at time, ^they say, 
"this is an apple, and that is an apple." In the Rev. E. 
Bushby' s Essay on Mind occurs this passage : " Our idea of 
solidity is also distinguished from that of pure space, which is 
capable neither of resistance nor motion. We may conceive two 
bodies approach one another, without touching or displacing any 
solid thing, till their surfaces meet ; and hence we obtain a clear 
idea of space without solidity. Whether there be such a thing as 
pure space is a different question ; but that we are able to form 
an idea of it, cannot be doubted !" p. 6. Few men laugh 
seldomer than I do — but this is enough to make a very tar- 
barrel split its sides ! He admits that it is doubtful whether 
there be any such thing as pure space ! He admits that 
there may, perhaps, be no such thing, and then proceeds 
to declare that there can be no doubt that we can form, not 
only an idea of it, but a " clear idea" of it ! What ! can we 
form an idea, clear or not clear, of that which has no exist- 
ence ? An idea of nothing ! Why this is abstraction double- 
distilled ! Abstraction run mad ! There is no such thing as a 
blynam — yet, only go to Mr. E. Bushby, B. D., Fellow and 
Tutor of St. John's College, Cambridge, and he will instruct 
you how you may form a " clear idea" of it nevertheless. 
Oiit! Of what? Nothing. 

Yet, at p. 16, Mr. Bushby says: " It is now generally admitted 
that the mind has no such power" — as that, viz., of abstraction. 

Mr. Bushby admits also that there are no such things as 
innate ideas. But, says he, (following Lord Shaftesbury) there 
are " ideas which may be said to be connatural." That is to say, 
there are no such things as ideas born in us, but there are such 
things as ideas born with us. For innate and connatural are 
both parts of the same word nascor, to be born. But let Mr. 
Bushby explain what he means by connatural. He says : 
"that is to say, the constitution of man is such that when he is 
grown up to the exercise of his reasoning powers, certain ideas 
will inevitably and necessarily spring up in him. Such are 
those above mentioned of existence, personal identity, time, 
number" 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 359 

Mr. Bushby's book purports to be, and is, little more than an 
abridgment, or rather condensation of Locke ; and Locke has 
said : " We can know nothing further than we have the idea of 
it; when that is gone, we are in perfect ignorance." What 
then ! has a child no idea, no knowledge, no consciousness of 
its own existence, till it has " grown up to the exercise of its 
reasoning faculties V Does it acquire the knowledge of its own 
existence by reasoning ? Does it not know that it can kick 
and scream, and see, and feel, and suck; or, in one word, that 
it lives, until it has reasoned itself into that knowledge ? If you 
pinch its ear till it screams, does it not know that it is itself, 
and not another, that is hurt ? If it do not know that it 
is itself, and not another that is hurt, why does itself cry, 
and endeavour to escape from the pain ? If it do not know 
but that it may be somebody else that is hurt, why does it not 
leave it to somebody else to cry, and to endeavour to escape from 
the pain ? But, says Mr. Bushby, an infant has no idea of ex- 
istence, nor of personal identity ! But who does not clearly 
perceive that Mr. Bushby can only mean that an infant has no 
idea of the word existence, the ivords personal identity, and the 
word itself. The child does not know those words, nor the use 
and application of those words — but it knows, that is, has the 
feelings, of which those words are the signs. To live, is to per- 
form certain actions — and, in animals, to have sensations — the 
child knows that it can perform those actions, for it does per- 
form them — and it knows that it has sensations, for it can feel — 
the only difference is, that the child does not know that all 
these things go by the names of existence, animal life, &c. It 
does not know the words, truly — but it knows the things — as 
well as the grayest-headed metaphysician of them all ! Mr. 
Bushby mistakes the word existence, for existence itself. A dog- 
has a perfectly clear idea of personal identity, for he knows that 
another dog is not himself, and that he is the same dog to-day 
that he was yesterday. For, if he did not, he could not profit 
to-day by the experience of yesterday. Nor would he know to- 
day, when his master called him by the name by which he called 
him yesterday, that he was the dog which went by that name. 
If the dog Tray did not know that he was the same dog who 



360 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

was called Tray yesterday, he could not possibly know that he 
was the dog that was wanted when his master cried, Tray ! 
to-day. The only difference is, that the dog does not know 
that the feelings which make him answer to his name are 
called having an idea oe personal identity. 

At p. 99, Mr. Bushby says : "if we understand by them (the 
words heat and color) some unknown disposition or motion of 
the insensible particles of bodies, by which the perception of 
heat or color is caused in us, then fire is hot and grass is green. 
But if we understand by those words what we feel by fire, or 
what we see in grass — in that sense, fire is not hot, nor grass 
green ; for the heat we feel, and the colors we see, are only in 
the soul" How ! does the fact of fire being hot, and grass 
green, depend upon what we chose to understand by those 
words ; and not upon their own nature ? Will fire cease to be 
what we now call hot, and grass cease to be what we now call 
green, whenever we chose to change the sense of those two 
words ? And does the Rev. Mr. Bushby really mean that the 
(( heat which" a dog " feels," and the u color which" a dog 
" sees," is only in the dog's u soul ?" No — the Rev. Mr. 
Bushby did not mean that dogs have souls — although he has 
distinctly implied so— and although they must have souls if Mr. 
Bushby J s philosophy, as here stated, were true. I only quote the 
passage, however, to show what sort of " fustian" that is which 
some men mistake for " philosophy." 

We are told that there are two sorts of qualities — primary 
and secondary. Solidity, they say, is one of these primary 
qualities. It is a primary what-sort-of-thing-ness. Here is a 
lump of sugar. It possesses now the quality called solidity. I 
pour hot water upon it — heigh presto ! solidity has made to 
itself wings and flown away. Where has it flown to ? The 
sugar now possesses a new quality called fluidity. Where has it 
come from ? But there was a point of time during the melting 
of the sugar when it possessed neither solidity nor fluidity, but 
only semi-solidity. Solidity is the very contrary of fluidity. 
Semi-solidity, therefore, should be the opposite of semi-fluidity. 
But semi-solidity and semi-fluidity, although they are the halves 
of opposite things, are, nevertheless, one and the same thing 



TO THINK. 361 

themselves ! Bah ! the stupid trash is not worth refuting. 

There is no such thing as solidity, nor any such thing as 
fluidity. There are things which we call solid, and things which 
we caW. fluid, and of these things we have ideas. But of solidity 
and fluidity we have no idea at all. How can we have ideas — ■ 
that is, knowledge, or consciousness, or recollections of non- 
existences — that is, of nothings ? To have an idea of nothing, 
is to know nothing ! These words are mere symbols, like a, b, 
c, x, y, z. Or like the word Co., and stand as so many short- 
hand marks to represent certain other words — as the mark' X 
stands, in algebra, for the words " multiplied by." 

Now observe — "Mr. B. has fallen from his horse and broken 
his leg." If you and I were to continue to converse on this 
matter for an hour, we should not have occasion to repeat the 
sentence, "Mr. B. has fallen from his horse and broken his leg" 
more than once. Why ? Because to save time and trouble, we 
should use a symbol in order to represent this whole sentence, 
as often as we had occasion to refer to it. What would that 
symbol be ? The word accident. In our conversation, there- 
fore, what would the word accident mean ? Why, it would 
mean, " fallen from his horse and broken his leg," would it 
not ? The word accident is a Latin word, and means that which 
has happened. And what is that which has happened ? Answer : 
"Mr. B. has fallen from his horse and broken his leg." The 
word accident, standing by itself, means nothing, except the 
words " that which has happened" And the words " that 
which has happened" mean nothing until we have been 
told what that is which has happened. What, then, is ac- 
cident ? The question is foolish, and entirely without signifi- 
cance. It is merely a grammatical arrangement of words which 
do not refer to things. You might as well ask me : what is the 
color of " God save the King ?" — what is x ? what is y ? what 
is z ? They are merely marks or sounds which we call letters. 
What is Co. ? Two letters joined together. What are they 
for ? To express ideas ? No — they are short-hand signs which 
are made to stand for words. Every time you use the phrase, 
"Mr. B/s accident," the only ideas which that phrase brings to 
my mind, are the ideas of Mr. B. and his broken leg. But 

2c 



362 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

these ideas are not communicated to me by the word accident, 
but, as it were, through the word accident, and by the words "Mr. 
B." and "broken leg" contained in the sentence, of which 
sentence the word accident I know to be the symbol. We have 
no means (in our own language) of condensing the whole sen- 
tence, " that which has happened/' into one word. In the Latin 
tongue we found it already done to our hands ; so we took the 
Latin word accidens, changed the final s into a t, to make it ac- 
cord with other similar words, and adopted it as the sign of the 
sentence, " that which has happened." It is true that the word 
accidens is not a past, but a present participle. The verb to 
which it belongs has no past participle — if it had, we should 
have taken that past participle- — but as it had not, we have 
taken the present participle and made it do duty for a past one. 

In fact, the substitution of these Latin words for the English 
words which they stand for, is nothing more than a translation 
of our own language into the Latin language. And the reason 
why we do this is, because that language is more concise than 
ours, and can express in one word as many ideas as would re- 
quire a whole sentence to express them in English. If, there- 
fore, we would understand the meaning of these Latin words, we 
must translate them back again into English. 

Instead of repeating over and over again the words, " that 
which has happened," we translate them into Latin, because the 
one Latin word accident signifies all that is signified by the 
English words, " that which has happened." 

But to suppose that, by merely translating the words of one 
language into the words of another, we, in any way, acquire 
new ideas, or in any manner alter the old ones, is most 
grossly absurd. Is it not ridiculous, because I choose to trans- 
late the English word man into the Latin word homo, (which 
means the same thing) and because I choose to use this Latin 
word homo, instead of this English word man — is it not, I say, 
ridiculous to ask me, " what is homo V and expect me to put 
you in possession of some new idea, as represented by that 
word homo, different from, and other than, the ideas which are 
represented by the English word man ? And surely the folly 
and insignificance of the question are not lessened, because it 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 365 

is the genius of one language to express by one word as many- 
ideas as can only be expressed by several words in another lan- 
guage ! Thus, if I choose to translate the two words " wise 
man" into the one Greek word sophron, (which signifies the 
same ideas) is it not ridiculous to ask me, " what is sophron ?V 
— expecting me to tell you that it is the sign of some new idea* 
different from, and other than, those represented by the English 
words " wise man." The word sophron is a Greek word, which 
any Englishman may use, if he pleases, (for the sake of brevity, 
or rhyme, or metre, or what not) as the symbol of his own two 
words " wise man." 

Yet, however absurd all this seems to be, it is what we are 
constantly doing. We translate the English words, " what sort 
of a thing," into the Latin word quality, and then ask, " what 
is quality?" And proceed, with all the equanimity in the 
world, to talk about primary qualities, and secondary qualities ! 
Risum teneatis ? 

We translate the English word man into the Latin word 
homo, and then ask, " what is homo ?" Risum teneatis ? 

We translate the English word breath into the Latin word 
spirit, and then ask, " what is spirit ?" Risum teneatis ? 

We translate the English word company into the shorter 
English word co., and then ask, " what is co ?" Risum teneatis ? 

We translate the English words " that which one thinketh" 
or "that which thing eth us," or (which is the same thing 
in amount) "that which exists," into the Anglo-Saxon word 
treowth, now spelled truth, and then ask, " what is truth ?" 
Risum teneatis ? 

We translate the modern English words, "that which is 
remembered" into the Anglo-Saxon word mind, and then ask, 
with all the gravity of so many owls, "what is mind?" and 
quarrel among ourselves, like so many angry monkeys, because no 
one can answer the question. Once more, I say, risum teneatis ? 

This is one of the tricks of language. Now let us return to 
the word solidity, and unearth another. 

I have just shown you how frequently we are in the habit 
(for convenience and brevity's sake) of translating certain words 
in our own language, into certain equivalent words in another 

2 c 2 



364 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

— and I have also shown you the gross absurdity of those teach- 
ers of metaphysical fustian who suppose that, by virtue of this 
translation, we acquire any new ideas. 

I will now show you that, in like manner, we are also in the 
habit of translating one form of expression in our own language 
into another form of expression in the same language. I will 
also show you how this second sort of translation has led these 
same manufacturers of metaphysical fustian into a similar error. 

The Rev. E. Bushby, in his essay on the mind — which is, 
and only purports to be, a condensation of John Locke, only 
dismissing some of Locke's ancient nonsense, and substituting 
some more modern nonsense in its place — illustrates what is 
meant by solidity, by saying -. "whether we move or rest, we feel 
something under us that supports us, and hinders our farther 
sinking downwards." It is true that he says, a line or two 
farther on, that solidity " is as essential a quality of water or air 
as of adamant," and thus turns the quality of fluidity out of 
house and home — for if fluidity (in case there be such a thing — 
and if there be not, it is a great mystery to me how there should 
be such a thing as solidity either) — if, I say, fluidity, be not 
allowed to reside in water or air, I cannot imagine where Mr. 
Bushby will find a habitation for it at all. Again — if solidity 
be an essential quality of water because, as Mr. Bushby says, 
it resists pressure, when enclosed in a gold globe, it really seems 
to me that fluidity must also be an essential quality of water, 
because it yields to pressure, when it is not confined in a gold 
globe. And, therefore, in a bottle of wine, before the cork is 
drawn, the wine is solid — but, as soon as you draw the cork, then 
it is & fluid. But as I have not "sworn to try your patience to 
the utmost/'' let us go on. 

If I wish to excite in you the idea of gold, I can do so merely 
by pronouncing the word gold — which word, being a noun, that 
is, a name, and a name only, will, thus standing alone, perform 
its office, and express my meaning, and do all I wish it to do, 
by exciting in you the idea of gold. But if I wish, not merely 
to excite in you the idea of gold, but also to let you know that I 
desire you to couple that idea with some other idea, then I 
express this additional desire by joining to the end of the word 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 365 

gold, the word en — and I use the word golden — and if I stop 
there, you would directly inquire, " golden what?" — thereby 
proving that you understood this additional desire, and that I 
had added the word en to the word gold, in order to let you 
know that I intended to add the word gold to some other word, 
in order to excite in you the idea of gold in conjunction with 
some other idea. I then add the word wire — and then you 
have, in your mind, the idea of a wire coupled with the idea of 
gold- — a golden wire. But you cannot fail to observe that, 
although I have changed the noun gold into the adjective 
golden, all I have done by that is to put the word gold into a 
condition to be joined with another word — given it, in fact, an 
adjective form — and let you know that that word is not intended 
by me to stand alone, but that I am going to add some other 
word to it. You will observe that the word golden still performs 
precisely the same office as the word gold — viz. that of exciting 
in you the idea of gold — and that the alteration in its termina- 
tion by the addition of en, makes no alteration whatever in the 
meaning of the word gold — that the word gold is the sign of 
the same idea or ideas precisely, whether used in an adjective 
form, or as a noun or name. And to prove this still more 
surely, (if that were possible) we often use the word gold in an 
adjective manner, without giving it an adjective form — we say, 
for instance, a gold watch, meaning a golden watch. 

Now, then, come with me into the garden. On this spot of 
earth I draw a square about the size of an ordinary flag-stone. 
Come, and stand within it. You observe I have used the word 
earth. But the Latins sometimes used the word solum to 
signify earth — as we sometimes use the word soil to denote the 
same thing. I choose, therefore, to use the Latin word solum, 
instead of the English word earth, in order to denote that 
portion of the earth on which you are standing — in order to 
denote that " something" (to use Mr. Bushby's words by which 
he illustrates what is meant by solidity, and which I have 
quoted above) that "something under (you) that supports (you) 
and hinders (your) farther sinking downward." Now the 
Latins wanted to serve this noun solum as we sometimes serve 
the word gold — that is, to put it into a condition to be joined 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 



with some other word; and to intimate to the hearer that the 
speaker desired first to excite in the hearer's mind the idea 
represented by the word solum, and then that this idea was to 
be coupled with some other idea to be presently excited in his 
mind by that other word, as soon as it should be mentioned. In 
order to effect this object, they did not, as we do with the word 
gold, viz. postfix the word en; but between the first syllable^/, 
and the second syllable um, of the word sol-urn, they introduced 
the word id — making it into sol-id-um — solidum. Now the 
word id is a Greek word signifying like — so that solidum signifies 
solum-like, or like solum. And thus the Latin phrase aurum 
solidum (solid gold) really signifies solum-like gold— that is, not 
gold which is fluid like water, but gold which, like solum, will, if 
you stand upon it, " prevent your farther sinking downward." 
Thus, then, by changing the termination of solum from um into 
idum, the Latins made their noun solum into an adjective, and 
so put it into a condition to be coupled with any other word, 
and informed the hearer that the speaker intended that it 
should be so coupled. But you will here please to observe that 
this alteration in the termination makes no difference whatever 
in the signification of solum. Solum still signifies the earth, and 
nothing else, whether it stand by itself, as solum ; or whether it 
stand joined to the Greek word id, as in sol-id-um. In the one, 
it signifies the earth simply — in the other, like the earth. 
Whatever the word id may add to the meaning of the word 
solum, it certainly can subtract nothing from it. I have told 
you, sometime ago, that we often convert Latin words into 
English words by merely dropping the final um of the word we 
wish to adopt. Thus our words interdict, verdict, intellect, are 
merely the Latin words interdict-um, veredict-um, intellect-um, 
with the um dropped. And we have adopted the Latin word 
solid-um by the same process, and thus acquired our word solid. 

Thus far you will observe, that in all this madness there is a 
very manifest method. I mean with regard to the terminations 
of words. But we shall presently find that we have preserved 
all the madness, while all the method has been lost or over- 
looked. 

Thus, then, the Romans, by help of the Greek word id, (like) 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 367 

converted their noun solum, into the adjective solidum — thereby 
depriving it of the power of standing alone, and informing the 
hearer that the ideas represented by it were intended to be 
added to, or compared with, some other idea afterward to be 
excited by some other noun. Solum signifies the earth, solidum 
like the earth, and solidum aurum signifies gold which is like the 
earth — that is, gold which, if you stand upon it, will not give 
way under you like molten gold, but will support you like the 
earth. 

But now, having got this new compound word sol-id-um, in 
the form of an adjective, (a form in which it cannot stand alone) 
they also wanted the same word in the form of a noun — that is, 
a form in which it might stand alone. This was absolutely 
necessary, in order to make the ideas represented by that com- 
pound word the subject of speech. For we can only talk of 
things, or the ideas of things, by means of the names of things, 
or of the ideas of things — that is, by means of nouns. All 
those ideas concerning which we desire to converse, must of 
necessity be represented by nouns, that is, names, before we can 
do so. Whatever ideas, therefore, are represented by an adjec- 
tive, that adjective must be altered into a noun before we can 
converse concerning those ideas. For the noun is the id de quo 
loquimur. The Romans wanted to converse concerning the 
ideas represented by the compound word sol-id-um. They, 
therefore, in order to enable themselves to do so, changed its 
adjective form solidum into the nominal form solidi-tas — that is 
to say, they thus put the word into that condition which would 
enable it to stand by itself. If we wanted to do the same with 
the English adjective earth-like, we should effect it in a similar 
manner — that is, by adding to it the termination ness — and the 
adjective earth-like (which cannot stand alone, nor become the 
subject of speech) would then become earth-like-ness — which 
can stand alone, and can become the subject of speech. We 
cannot make the English adjective solid, the subject of speech. 
We cannot say, " I admire the solid of that structure ;" nor, 
" such a thing has a good deal of solid in its appearance" — but 
we must change the adjective form into the nominal form, and 
say, "I admire the solidity, &c. ;" or, " such a thing has a deal 



368 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

of solidity, &c. But it is manifest that whatever is meant by 
the one word is also equally indicated by the other — that 
is, whatever is meant by solid is also signified by solidity. The 
change in the termination does no more than fit the word for 
different modes of expression. The ideas represented by the 
word remain unchanged. 

Our word solidity is nothing but this word soliditas, with its 
Latin termination tas changed into the English termination ty. 

Now here you will observe several translations. First, the 
Latin noun solum (the earth) is translated into the Latin adjec- 
tive solidum (like the earth) — then the adjective is re-translated 
into a noun, soliditas (earth -like-ness) — then the Latin noun 
soliditas is translated once more into the English noun solidity. 

Thus far all is method — but now comes the madness and the 
folly. For surely it is both madness and folly, too, to suppose 
that these changes in the termination of a word, in order to suit 
it to the different modes of expression and exigencies of speech, 
can have the slightest possible effect in changing the meaning 
of so much of the word as remains permanent throughout all 
these terminational changes. Here, for instance, is a word I 
have just now coined. I mean the word terminational. Is the 
meaning of the word termination altered, in the slightest degree, 
because I wanted, at that moment, to use it in the form of an 
adjective, and effected my object at once by adding to the noun 
the adjective termination al ? And would the adjective termina- 
tional be at all changed, as to its signification, by once more 
cutting off the final al, and so reducing it again to the form of a 
noun ? Clearly not. It is the use of the word which is alone 
changed, and not its meaning. It is the same with solidum and 
soliditas — solid and solidity. They all represent the idea of the 
earth, or anything else which will not, like water, yield to 
pressure, but which will, like the earth, resist it. 

But, say the abstract philosophers, although solid signifies 
like the earth, yet the word solid-ity has no such signification — 
and does not signify the earth, nor anything on, nor within, nor 
under the earth — nor anything, indeed, in the universe — nor the 
likeness of anything in the universe — it is, say they, merely the 
name of— " think what \" as Moore says- — an abstract idea ! 



ABSTRACT IDEAS, 369 

The poet, you know, somewhere tells us of 

" Anthropophagi, 
Or men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. " 
Anthropophagi means certain man-eating men. With your 
mind's eye you may see them plainly enough — horrid-looking 
monstrous fellows, without heads on their shoulders, and with 
great glaring hungry eyes staring at you from beneath their 
arms, while their great white teeth are tearing the flesh and 
crunching the bones of a human limb. But now, say these 
philosophers, only take up your pen, and dipping it carefully 
into the ink, just convert the final letter i, of the word anthro- 
pophagi, into a y, and lo ! — mirabile dictu — the monsters have 
all vanished with the suddenness of a flash of lightning ! 
Anthropos no longer signifies a man, and phagon no longer 
signifies that motion of the jaws called eating, and anthropophag 
no longer signifies men-eating men, or man-eaters. Oh no ! — 
it is now merely the sign of an abstract idea, and is no longer 
the name of any thing } either in heaven, or earth, or the waters 
under the earth. 

Surely it needs no conjurer to perceive that this is sheer 
nonsense. Anthropo-phag will continue to signify a man-eater, 
tag it with whatever termination you will. But to proceed — ■ 
when we say that solidity is one of the qualities of a brick, we 
merely declare what sort of thing a brick is. If we put the 
affirmation into the form of question and answer, this will 
become evident, and the true meaning of the words quality and 
solidity will become evident at the same time. What is the 
quality of a brick ? Answer : solidity. What sort of thing is a 
brick ? Answer : it is that sort of thing, or belongs to that 
class of things which, if you stand upon them, "will (like the 
earth) support you, and prevent your farther sinking downward." 
Can anything be clearer ? There needs no etymology for all 
this ! It needs nothing more than common sense. For if the 
words what-sort-of-thing-ness do actually convey men's meaning 
— and if that meaning be precisely the same which is conveyed 
when they use the word quality— is not that proof positive that 
the word quality, (let its etymology be what it may) does 
assuredly signify all and whatever is signified by the several 
words what-sort-of-thing-ness ? 



370 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

The word solidity, therefore, is merely (in our language) a 
symbol which we use (for brevity's sake) instead of the words 
likeness to the earth, or being like the earth. It is, in fact, like 
all the others of this class, really and truly a pronoun. It is, 
like I, or you, or we, a symbol used instead of one or more nouns. 

I will give you a few familiar instances of the manner in 
which these so-called abstract nouns are formed; and though 
some of my new creations will have an awkward sound, I will 
defy all the scholars in Europe to say that they are not strictly 
proper English words, and formed according to an equally strict 
analogy, and moreover perfectly intelligible, which is all that is 
required of any word. It is the awkwardness which you will 
observe in some of these words which drives us to the Latin and 
Greek, to seek for equivalent words in those tongues ; because 
those tongues are so much more pliant and brief than our own. 

Here is a brick. First, I affirm of this brick that it is solid, 
or that it possesses solidity. Are not these two phrases mutually 
interchangeable ? and must they not therefore mean precisely 
the same ? Whence then do I get the new abstract idea said to 
be represented by the word solidity, since the two phrases mean 
the same thing, and, in the former phrase, there is no noun at 
all either abstract or otherwise ? 

This brick can be broken — therefore it possesses (if I speak 
in Latin) frangibility ; (if in English) breakability. It can be 
reduced to powder — therefore it possesses (if I speak Latin) 
pulveriz ability ; (if English) pow der ability . But it can be not 
only powdered, but powdered either in a mill or under a boot- 
heel — therefore it possesses, say our philosophers, both the 
abstract qualities of powder-in-a-mill-ability and pow der -under -a- 
boot-heel-ability — and these two words are the signs of the two 
abstract ideas of powder-in-a-mill-ability and powder-under -a- 
boot-heel-ability . But this brick can be painted green — there- 
fore it possesses the abstract quality of green-paint-ability \ And 
so you may go on creating, not only abstract nouns, but also 
abstract ideas, as long as you can continue to affirm anything 
new of these bricks. 

We are told there are two sorts of qualities, primary and 
secondary. Secondary qualities, says professor Stewart, how- 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 371 

ever, ought to be called the (( mathematical affections of matter" 
And we should <( restrict the phrase primary qualities" adds this 
philosopher, " to hardness, softness, and other properties of the 
same description." "And the line which I would draw between 
these primary qualities and secondary is this : that the former 
necessarily involve the notion of extension, and consequently of 
externality or outness" (a new abstract idea, coined for this 
occasion by professor Stewart) "whereas the latter are only 
conceived as the unknown causes of known sensations, and, 
when first apprehended by the mind" (professor Stewart seems to 
suppose the mind is something like a burn -bailiff, who, tapping 
these abstract ideas on the shoulder, takes them at once into 
custody) " do not imply the existence of anything locally distinct 
from the subjects of its own consciousness." 

Now the question is this — is powder-under-a-boot-heel-ability 
a primary quality or secondary? For I can recognise in it 
neither externality or outness, nor internality or inness, nor any 
mathematical affections of any kind — all I can recognise in it is 
under -a-boot-heel-ness, which does not seem to me clearly to 
refer it either to one or the other of the two classes of qualities 
— so that the learned professor must look out for a new line of 
distinction. 

Extension is another quality of this brick. It is another word 
which tells you what sort of a thing a brick is. Its surface is 
extended, as you might extend threads in every direction until 
you produced the appearance of a spider's web — or the surface 
of a piece of silk. I say this brick is not like the point of a 
needle, but it is stretched out in every direction. Or, if I choose 
to vary the form of expression, I say it possesses (if I speak in 
Latin) extension ; or (if I speak English) stretcK d-out-ness. In 
both instances I mean precisely the same thing. What are the 
qualities of a brick ? One of them is extension. What sort of 
a thing is a brick ? The word extension answers the question, 
and informs you that it is an extended thing — that it belongs to 
that class of things which are extended; or, (if you choose to 
vary the form of the adjective or participle extended into the form 
of a noun) that sort of things which possess extension. But, vary 
the termination as you please, the words extended and exten- 



372 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

sion will excite in your mind something or other having a flat 
surface, and the phrase, "it possesses extension/' will merely 
inform you that a brick is like that thing with a flat surface, 
(whatever it happen to be) which the word extension or extended 
excited in your mind. I cannot treat this word exactly as I did 
the word solidity, because I do not know the particular- object of 
which the word extend is the name. But whatever it was, it was 
certainly something which is what we call stretched out. Any 
thing, therefore, which is stretched out will do as well as the 
particular thing of which extend is the name — say a spider's 
web. Then the phrase, " this brick possesses extension/ 3 would 
be equivalent to, " this brick possesses spider' s-web-ness" — and 
all it would mean would be that it is like a spider's web — not in 
all respects, (for it is also like the earth in one respect) but only 
in this — that it is stretched out in every direction. 

This word then, like all other similar words, is merely a sym- 
bol used to represent all those words which would be necessary 
to describe an extended surface — and to ask, "what is exten- 
sion ? is as absurd as to ask, " what is co. V 9 or " what is x V 9 
Standing by itself it means nothing — nothing but the words 
of which it is the symbol, viz. stretched out, or that which is 
stretched out, &c. &c. according to the manner of its employ- 
ment. To say that a brick possesses the quality of extension, is 
merely to say that it belongs to, or is like, or is of kin to, that 
sort or class of things which are extended. The two abbreviated 
symbols, quality and extension, save us the trouble of repeating 
all this long roundabout periphrasis. 

It is admitted on all hands, since Home Tooke's time, that all 
general terms were originally the names of particular things; 
and that they have become general terms by being applied to 
all such things as are like, or of kin to, those particular things 
of which they were first the particular names. 

A savage, having seen a stream of water, and having agreed 
with his tribe to call it a river, whenever he saw another stream 
of water, would call that also by the name of river. Every 
stream of water, would thus become a river; and that word 
river, which was at first only the particular name of that par- 
ticular stream of water which the savage saw first, would be- 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 373 

come a general term to indicate any and every stream of water 
— or, in other words, to signify all those objects which bore a 
general resemblance, were like, or of kin to, that particular 
object to which the term was first applied, viz. the river 
which was first beheld by the savage. All general terms, 
therefore, involve comparison — comparison with that particular 
thing of which any one general term was originally the par- 
ticular name. 

When, therefore, I say, a thing is extended, I do, in fact, 
only say that that thing may be compared with, is like, or of 
kin to, that other particular thing of which the word extend, or 
rather the word tend, was originally the 'particular name. We 
do not now know what that particular thing was ; but we do 
know that it must have been something with a fiat surface; 
because it could not have become a general term for such things, 
had it not first of all been the particular name of some such 
thing — since general terms are but particular terms, applied to 
all such things as are of the same kind as that particular thing 
to which the term was first applied. 

I say we do not now know what the particular thing was to 
which the term tend was first applied, but that it must have been 
something with a broad surface. I have therefore supposed, in 
order to illustrate what I am saying, and since it is of no conse- 
quence what the thing really was, so long as it only had a flat sur- 
face, that the word tend was first used as the particular name of a 
spider's web. Supposing this to be the case then, when I say a 
thing is extended, I only say, in fact, that it is like a spider's 
web ; and when I say a thing possesses extension, I only say, in 
fact, that it possesses the appearance of, or likeness to, a spider's 
web. The difference is merely a difference in the form of expres- 
sion. For it is quite clear that whether I say man is a reason- 
creature, or reasonable creature, or creature possessing reason or 
reasonableness ; or that he is a rational creature, or a creature 
possessing rationality, or ratiocinative capabilities — I say it is 
quite clear, let me vary the form of expression as I may, and 
whether I use adjectives with the verb is, or nouns with the verb 
possess, that I still mean one and the same thing, and all that 
my words can do or are meant to do, is to cause the hearer to 



374 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

couple in his mind the idea (whatever it be) represented by the 
word reason, with the idea represented by the word man. 

The Latin participle extens-um we translate by the words, 
that which is extend-ed. But extend-ed is as much a Latin word 
as extens-um. The proper translation (supposing, as I have 
supposed, that the root of the word signifies a spider's web) 
would be, that which is like a spider's web. 

It is the fact of our having forgotten what that particular thing 
is, of which each of our general terms was originally the name 
which has helped to involve us in the absurd mysteries of ab- 
straction. Thus it has been violently disputed whether the 
word man be the name of a thing, or of an abstract idea. The 
abstract philosophers asserted that it was not the name of a 
thing ; because, said they, if it be the name of a thing, tell us 
of what thing it is the name. Is it the name of that thing called 
Mr. P, or Mr. Q, or Mr. M ? Does the word man signify Mr. 
H, or Mr. T, or Mr. W ? No. And if we could enumerate all 
the men in the world, or that ever were in the world, or ever 
will be in the world, could you tell us which of them all is indi- 
cated by the word man ? No, again. Then, cried the abstract 
philosophers, it is manifest that the word man is not the name 
or sign of anything, but only of an abstract idea. But this is 
mere sophistry ; for general terms necessarily include all the 
particulars of which the generals are made up ; and since man 
is the name of all men in general, it is equally the name of each 
man in particular — just as the word river is as certainly the 
name of the Thames as it is of that one particular river to which 
it was at first applied. If I pronounce to you the word man, 
and then ask you what idea it brings to your mind, you will find 
that it has caused you to remember some person with whom you 
are acquainted ; and then the word man becomes (for the time 
being) the sign of the idea or image of that person whom it has 
caused you to remember — just as the general symbols x or y 
may become, for the time being, the particular signs of the figure 
9, or 6, or 3. And thus all general terms become particular 
terms for the time being. Thus, the word apple may bring to 
my mind a nonpareil, and to your mind a pippin. For the time 
being, therefore, the word apple means (to me) a nonpareil, and 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 375 

(to you) a pippin. To the minds of other men it may bring the 
ideas of other apples — and even to our minds, on different 
occasions, it may bring the ideas of different apples. But because 
it does not to all men, and at all times, mean one and the same 
particular apple, the abstract philosophers assure us that the 
word apple means nothing at all, but is only the sign of an abr 
stract idea. But I say the word apple means a pippin, as incon- 
testably as the word pippin itself does. 

But here lies the difference between general and particular 
terms — that, although both have a meaning — that is, have the 
power of exciting ideas in the mind — they have not an equal 
power of communicating ideas. If I have in my mind the idea of 
a pippin, and I wish to communicate that idea to you, and if I 
seek to do so by using the word apple, I shall be almost sure to 
fail in my object ; since, although for the time being, the word 
apple means a pippin to me, it may excite in your mind the idea 
of a biffin ; and therefore means a biffin to you, while it means 
a pippin to me. 

These general terms, therefore, can never be used to com- 
municate any accurate or particular knowledge. And it is on 
this account that they have produced so much mischief and 
misunderstanding in the world. The word virtue, for instance, 
is like the word apple — a general term. And as the word apple 
means a pippin to one man, and a biffin to another ; so the word 
virtue means one thing to one man, and another to another. 
To the Turk it has one meaning, to the Brahmin another, to an 
Englishman a third. As the word apple, therefore, cannot 
signify any one particular apple more than another, so the word 
virtue cannot denote any one particular class of actions more 
than another. If a man, who had never seen or heard of any 
other apple than a biffin, were to ask another man, who had 
never seen or heard of any other apple than a pippin, what is 
the meaning of the word apple, the latter would take up a 
pippin, and say, " it means this !" But the other would then 
take up a biffin and exclaim, " no ! it means this !" And there- 
upon those two men would go to loggerheads. So if a Turk 
were to ask a Brahmin, what is the meaning of the word virtue, 
the Brahmin would say, it means abstinence from animal food. 



376 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

But the Turk would immediately reply : " no ! it means absti- 
nence from wine \" And if they called in a Jew to decide 
between them, the Jew would say : " gentlemen, you are both 
wrong ! Virtue only means abstinence from pork !" For the 
very reason, therefore, that the word apple means any kind of 
apple whatever, it signifies no apple in particular. So the word 
virtue can denote no kind of conduct in particular, because it is 
used to mean any kind of conduct whatever, to which any 
particular people have been taught to apply the term virtue. 

In ordinary conversation or reading, whenever we meet with 
a general term, and find that the understanding of the meaning 
of that general term is necessary to the understanding of the 
argument, that general term instantly becomes a particular 
term, and the sign of a particular idea. Thus, if I read that it 
is possible to maintain life in an animal without food or drink, 
the word animal is a general term, and has no meaning until I 
have made it a particular term. While it remains a general 
term, I cannot reason with myself about the truth or fallacy of 
this assertion. But if I wish to think and reason about it, the 
first thing I do is to reduce the general term animal to the 
particular name of some particular animal, say a dog. And 
then, having got into my mind this definite and particular idea, 
I can think and reason about it, and satisfy myself as to 
whether the assertion be true or false, by trying ideal experi- 
ments with my ideal dog. If I satisfy myself that the assertion 
is false, as it regards that particular animal, the dog, then the 
assertion is false altogether. For the term animal is a general 
term, and therefore includes all particular animals, and the 
assertion is a general assertion, and, to be true, must be true in 
every particular. But, I say, unless I made the general term 
animal the sign of some particular animal, as the dog, I could 
not reason or think upon the subject, nor arrive at any con- 
clusion. But to return to extension. 

I have already shown you that, when I say, "this brick is 
solid or possesses solidity," I merely inform you that it resembles 
the earth. And so when I say, "it is extended or possesses 
extension," I merely inform you that it is also like a spider's 
web — that is, like the earth, inasmuch as it will support you, if 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 377 

you stand upon it ; and, like a spider's web, inasmuch as 
it is stretched out, and not attenuated like the point of a 
thorn. 

It must be remembered that, when we wish to institute a 
comparison, we do not always use the word like, but frequently 
omit it. Thus we often say, " such or such a man is a perfect 
brute" — meaning, of course, that he perfectly resembles a brute. 

We also say, " so-and-so has a good deal of the serpent in 
him." In both instances we merely mean to compare the man, 
or liken him, to a brute and to a serpent. 

If, then, I wish to communicate the idea of a brick to a man 
who never saw one, I can only do so by calling to his mind the 
ideas of several things, all of which it resembles in some one 
particular. I call to his mind a flat thing, and tell him it is 
like that — a thick thing, and tell him it is like that — a heavy 
thing, and tell him it is like that — a thing having about the 
same dimensions, and tell him it is like that. And I can make 
this comparison either by means of the verb is, and the adjectives 
flat, thick, heavy, large ; or by means of the verb possesses, and 
the nouns flatness, thickness, weight, magnitude. When I say, 
"it is flat," I mean it is like flat things; and when I say it 
possesses flatness, I mean it possesses the appearance of flat 
things. And I am obliged to use the word things in the phrase 
flat things, only because we have forgotten the particular thing 
of which flat was once the sign. But if the particular meaning 
of the word flat had not been forgotten, but was known as the 
name of what we now call a pot-lid, then when I said, " a brick 
is flat," I should mean a brick is like a pot-lid. And when I 
said, " it possesses flatness/' or extension, I should mean, " it 
possesses the appearance of a pot-lid." In the one case you 
would know what I meant, because the word flat would bring to 
your mind the idea of a pot-lid and nothing else. But, as it is, 
you still understand me, because, although the word flat does 
not bring to your mind a pot-lid, yet it does bring to your mind 
something or other which has a broad flat surface, and which 
will therefore serve for the purpose of comparison, and for 
conveying to your mind the sort of idea I wish to convey thither, 
just as well as a pot-lid would do. 

2d 



378 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

It is just as absurd, therefore, (in a strictly etymological point 
of view) to say that extension is not the name of a thing or 
things, as it would be to say that pot-lid-ness is not the name 
of things. For as the addition of ness to the word pot-lid 
cannot prevent the word pot-lid from suggesting to your mind 
the idea of a pot-lid, so neither can the addition of ion to the 
word extens prevent the word extens from suggesting to your 
mind some broad thing or other. 

But since these words have ceased to be the names of 
particular things, and have become general terms, they can now 
be only used as the symbols of other words which it would 
require a longer time to write or speak. Thus, instead of 
saying, " this brick has a superficies like all other solid bodies," 
I use the symbol, and say, " it has extension." 

He, therefore, who supposes that, when he is talking about 
the qualities of bodies, he is not talking about things, but only 
about abstract ideas, is very much mistaken. For he who talks 
about extension is, in fact, talking about pot-lids, spider's webs, 
and all such other things as have fiat surfaces. 

As extension, therefore, is not the name of any particular 
thing, or idea, but is merely used as a symbol standing as the 
representative of other words, as, for instance, the words that 
which is extended — or, that which impresses our organs after the 
manner of things which are extended- — or, that which does what 
those things do ivhich are extended, viz. stretch themselves out— 
and is a contrivance of language, whose object is to put all 
those words of which it is the symbol into a condition which will 
enable them to stand by themselves, and become the subject of 
speech — so the following, and whole hosts of others of the same 
stamp, are not the names of any particular things or ideas, but 
merely symbols of other words — signs standing for other signs, 
as the algebraical signs a, b, c stand for those other signs called 
figures. 

Mot-ion— (something, anything) doing that which those things 
do which move. If you desire to know what that is 
which those things do which move, nothing but your 
senses can inform you. Look at any moving body and 
you will know. 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 379 

Equitat-ion — (some one, any one) doing what those do who ride 
on horse-back. 

Stat-ion — (something, anything) doing that which those 
things do which stand — or, the place where anything 
stands. 

Conversat-ion — -(some persons, any persons) doing what those 
do who turn toward each other, i. e. talk. 

Sensat-ion — (something, anything) doing that which those 
things do which feeh This word has been made from a 
false analogy, there being no such past participle as 
sensatum in the Latin language. And the framers of it 
also supposed that the act of feeling was an operation 
performed hy us, instead of upon us. If you desire 
to know what that is which those things do which 
feel, or rather which is done to them, your senses 
alone can inform you of this, as of everything 
else. 

Vis-ion— (some one, any one) doing that which those things do 
which see. Here is the same error as in the word 
sensation, arising from the supposition that seeing is an 
act performed by us. 

Rat-io, Lat. — Rais-on, ~Fr.—Reas-on, Eng.— (something, any- 
thing) doing that which things do — viz. affecting our 
bodily organs. The word is nearly equivalent to ex- 
perience, which means to discover, or know by means of 
our organs of sense. To say that so and so is contrary 
to reason, is to say that it is contrary to the experience 
of our senses. To say that a thing is reasonable, is" to 
say that it accords with the testimony of our senses. To 
reason signifies to be affected by things, and to have our 
conduct determined accordingly. When the cat dipped 
her paw into the egg-cup half-filled with milk, and 
licked it, because she could not get her muzzle far 
enough into the cup to lap its contents, her conduct was 
the result of reasoning— that is, she was moved to do 
what she did by the milk which she desired to get at, 
and the smallness of the vessel, which hindered her from 
doing so— in a word, she was thinged to do what she did, 



380 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

and the things which thinged her were the milk and 

the cup. 
But the word also signifies to talk. Thus we say, u I 
reasoned with myself upon the subject." It derives this double 
sense from the double sense of the noun res, from which the 
verb is derived. Like the English word thing, the Latin word 
res signifies, in its first sense, speech — in its secondary sense, it 
is merely the general name of all the objects of which our senses 
can take cognizance. Like thing, therefore, it gives origin to 
two verbs, viz. to speech or speak, and to be affected, that is, to 
have our senses impressed, by things. Brutes, therefore, can 
only reason in this last sense of the word, which is the cause of 
the inferiority of their reasoning powers. When a man says 
" it rained yesterday, which is the reason why I did not go to 
church" — here the rain is the thing which thinged him, and 
determined his conduct. If you have understood all that I have 
said about the verb to think, you can have no difficulty in under- 
standing the true senses of this word reason. In one of its 
senses, derived from one of the senses of its root, res, it means 
to talk — in its other sense, derived from the other sense of its 
root, it signifies to be affected by things, or thinged. And as 
our conduct is determined by the mode in which we are affected 
by things, we are therefore said to act from reason, or according 
to reason. A dog, therefore, can reason, and does reason, 
because he is excited to action by things, and his conduct is 
governed accordingly with the manner in which things affect 
him. But his reasoning powers are much less than man's, 
because, from his want of the faculty of speech, he cannot cause 
things to affect him at pleasure — that is, he cannot, by the 
utterance of words, and the force of that association with which 
words are associated with things, cause things which have 
impressed him once to impress him again, whenever he pleases, 
after that manner which we call remembering. 

The following consideration will show the vast importance of 
words in this respect. Suppose a man to have followed out some 
particular chain of reasoning — not for any particular purpose, but 
accidentally, or for amusement. If he think no more about it for 
some time, he will forget it, or a part of it — some of the links in 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 381 

the chain will be lost — and if he wish, after the lapse of some 
time, to reason the matter over again, he will probably not be 
able to do so with the same clearness with which he succeeded 
before. But if he have taken the precaution to make memo- 
randa, although those memoranda be no more than a single 
word here and there, the referring to those words at almost any- 
after time will recal, not only all the links in the chain, but also 
in the same order in which he had first arranged them. 

A man who has composed a long speech, to be delivered at a 
future time, may always enable himself to remember it when he 
wants, by only putting down a few heads of its several divisions. 
Such is the power of words, and such the secret of man's superior 
reasoning faculty ! How far could Sir Isaac Newton have pro- 
ceeded in any one of his astonishing calculations, if he had not 
possessed the means of writing down each step of the process as 
he went along ? Try and multiply in your mind any four 
figures by any other four figures, and you will find it impossible. 
This alone is sufficient to show you how extremely little (almost 
nothing) can be done without some means to aid the memory, 
as we say — that is, some means of causing ourselves to be 
thing ed over again at pleasure. Words are, in the ordinary 
reasoning processes of mankind, what figures are in the more 
difficult, sustained, and abstruse ratiocinations. Whatever a 
dog sees he forgets — to whatever a man sees he gives a name, 
writes that name down, and whenever he sees, or hears, or 
pronounces that name, he causes himself to be re-impressed by 
that thing after that manner which we call remembering ; and 
thus a thing, or concatenation of things, which, at the time, had 
no influence on his conduct, may be made, on a future occasion, 
and under other circumstances, a motive to action — and then 
that man is said to act from reason. The reasoning consists in 
his having caused himself to be thing ed over again. 
Imagination — (some one, any one) doing that which those things 
do which reflect, or possess, or contain the image or 
representation of anything else. To imagine, therefore, 
is to do what the looking-glass does, viz. contain an 
image or representation of something else. 
These English words (as they are called, but Latin words as 



382 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

they really are) ending in ion, seem to be composed of a Latin past 
participle and the Greek second aorist participle mv (ion) of the 
verb zipi, to go, to act, to do. For it must be remembered 
that the Greek sjf« signifies to perform any kind of action, and 
not simply to progress from one place to another. Thus 
izvcii rtvi dta<$i\iu$ signifies to act towards any one with kind- 
ness. It is the same with our word go. "We say the clock goes 
• — it is going to rain— vulgar people say, " don't go for to make 
a fool of yourself now" — and when you are reading the paper 
at breakfast, and your wife says, a come, drink your tea/ 5 you 
say, in answer, " I am going to drink it directly," although you 
have no intention, and no occasion, to quit your chair. 

The termination ion, therefore, signifies acting or doing, and 
gives the word to which it is post-fixed the force and signifi- 
cation of our present participles ending in ing. Thus motion 
and moving have precisely the same sense— the one signifying 
(something, anything) doing that which those things do which 
move — and the other signifies (something, anything) moving. 
It is clear that moving, and doing that which those things do 
which move, signify the same thing. The reason why I am 
obliged to use this periphrasis, viz. te doing that which those 
things do which move," is only because we do not know the 
name of that particular thing which the root of the word move 
represents. But supposing it to have been what we now call 
lightning — then, instead of saying that "motion signifies 
(something, anything) doing what those things do which 
move," I should say " (something, anything,) doing what the 
lightning does — or lightning-acting." 

It is as absurd, therefore, to ask me what motion is, as it 
would be to ask me what moving is. They both signify some- 
thing, anything which moves ; and if you desire to know in what 
manner moving bodies affect your sight—wherein consists the 
difference of appearance between moving bodies and bodies at 
rest — it is clear that words cannot inform you — nothing can 
inform you but seeing some body in motion, 

I believe the Greek sco, to go, which is the root of s^a ; and 
the Latin eo, to go, as well as our own words go, to, and do, are 
all one word— that they are all only so many different ways of 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 383 

spelling the same word, which word was originally the name of 
some object in nature which, being generally or always recog- 
nised under that condition which we call action, was always 
associated in the mind with that appearance which moving 
bodies present, and thus became at last used to designate any- 
thing and everything which presents that appearance — that is 
to say, ceasing to signify any one particular moving thing, it 
was used to designate any and every thing which presented the 
same appearance as that particular thing did of which it was 
originally the exclusive name — just as the word river, at first the 
name of some particular stream of water, came at last to be the 
name of every body of water which presented the general appear- 
ance of that body of water to which it was first applied. The 
word having thus come to signify no one thing in particular, but 
any moving body in general, philosophers supposed the word to 
signify no body at all, but the appearance of moving bodies 
alone, without the bodies themselves — and therefore fancied that 
the word motion was the name of an idea without any reference 
to, or connexion with, bodies themselves — in a word, an abstract 
idea. But it is quite clear that although we can have a very 
clear idea of things in motion, or moving things, we can have no 
idea whatever of motion without something moving, and that we 
never could acquire any such idea. Endeavour to conjure up to 
your mind's eye an idea of motion, and all you will get will be 
an idea of some body or other moving. You might just as well 
hope to obtain an idea of river without water, as of motion with- 
out some body moving. To move, therefore, signifies to do 
what the mo does, or mo-acting (supposing mo to be the root of 
the word). But since we do not know what particular thing 
that is which was called mo, any other thing will do as well, so 
long as (like the mo, whatever it was) it be inseparably connected 
in the mind with that appearance which is presented by bodies 
which move — a bird, a stream of water, the leaf of the aspen 
tree — -and then motion would signify bird-acting, or doing 
what the bird does— stream of water-acting, or doing what a 
stream of water does — aspen-leaf-acting, or doing what the 
aspen-leaf does — that is, presenting that appearance which 
bodies exhibit when not at rest. 



384 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

All infinitive moods of verbs, and present participles, are 
made up of a noun which is the name of a thing, and another 
noun which has come to be the general name for all bodies in 
action, and thus suggests to the mind what is now suggested by 
our general term action ; just as our word like, which signifies 
the skin, has come, at last, to signify the external covering of 
anything whatever — or, as we say, the appearance of a thing. 
Thus, to say that one thing is like another, is to say that 
one thing has the skin of another. The use of this word was 
easily extended (figuratively) from objects of sight to objects of 
the other senses. 

In English, the word denoting action is to — in Anglo-Saxon 
it is an, ian, gan, agan, gean, and sometimes on. I do not 
agree with Sharon Turner that an, ian, and gan or agan are 
three different words signifying to give, to possess, and to go. 
They are but fragments and different modes of writing the one 
word gan or agan, which signifies to act, to do. 

It is not impossible that the old word ga, now written go, 
may be identical with the old Anglo-Saxon word ga, a goad — ■ 
and then to go, would signify to do what the cattle do when 
goaded — that is, put themselves in motion, or become moving 
bodies, instead of bodies at rest. Surely it is not more difficult 
to conceive that we got our word signifying action in general 
from a word signifying a goad, than that we have obtained our 
word signifying similitude in general from a word signifying 
the skin. Our word ing, too, which is identical with the German 
ung, and with which we terminate our present participle, and 
express action, may possibly be the Anglo-Saxon ong-a, which 
also signified a goad. The ancient termination of our present 
participles, which was in encle or gende, I also believe to 
belong to the same word gan, to go, in the general sense of to 
do, to act. And the Latin ag-ere, to drive, I believe to be only 
this same word ga, a goad, with a very common metathesis 
of letters, a g for g a; and with the Latin termination ere 
significative of action. Thus ag-ere would signify to act with a 
goad, which is exactly equivalent with the meaning given in the 
dictionaries as its primitive signification, viz. to drive, as they 
drive cattle. All language is merely suggestive; and par- 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 385 

ticular words, which are associated in the mind with parti- 
cular circumstances, are often used in order to suggest those 
circumstances (whether of action or otherwise) which are so 
associated, in conjunction with other things which are not associ- 
ated in the mind with those particular circumstances. Thus the 
word bishop, being associated in the mind with certain actions 
performed only by bishops, has the power of causing those 
actions to be associated, for the time, with any other thing, the 
name of which is pronounced in conjunction with that word 
bishop — say, for instance, children. " To lange an-biscop-od ne 
wurthe" — (children) " should not be toq long unconfirmed" that 
is, unbishoped. Here the word bishop not only suggests the 
two ideas of children and a bishop, but of children submitting to } 
and a bishop performing, those actions which (altogether) are 
called confirmation. 
Causat-ion — (something, anything) which does what causes do, 

viz. produce effects. 
Not-ion — (something, anything) doing (to us) what those things 
do which make themselves known to us — that is, pro- 
ducing their natural effects upon our senses. 
You will perceive, therefore, that these words are not the 
signs of ideas, but the signs of whole sentences of words. There 
can, therefore, be no such thing as an idea of motion, nor any 
such thing as motion. There are bodies which move, and we 
may have an idea of something moving, but the word motion is 
merely a symbol standing for other words — such as, bodies 
which move ; or, moving bodies ; or, in the strict etymological 
sense, doing what moving bodies do ; with the words something, 
anything, understood. 

Of a similar nature are our participles ending in ing. Thus 
Hearing — signifies ear-acting — (some one, any one) using their 

ears. 
Feeling, or Felling — that is, skin-acting — (some one, any one) 
doing something with the skin ; or rather having some- 
thing done to the skin. 
Smelling — something doing something to the nose. 
Tasting — something doing something to the tongue. 
Seeing — something doing something to the eyes — that is, pro- 



386 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

during the ordinary effects which certain things are 
calculated to produce upon all these several organs of 
sense. 
Instead of using these English words ending in ing, I can 
express precisely the same things by the Anglo-Latin words 
ending in ion : as, vision, sensation, audition, olfaction, and 
gustation. There is no more mystery, therefore, about seeing, 
feeling j &c, than there is about falling, sinking, swimming — nor 
any more difficulty in answering the question, " what is feeling 
or sensation V than there is in answering the question, ' ' what 
is falling ?" " what is sinking V Sinking is something doing 
something in water ; and feeling is something doing something 
to the skin. These are the verbal meanings of the words in 
question- — these are the several words which the single words 
stand for. If you would know the meaning in nature which 
these several words stand for, I send you to your senses to 
inquire. It is of them only you can learn. Your eyes alone 
can inform you— that is, put into you the form or appearance 
which a thing has when sinking through water. And, not your 
eyes, but your skin only can teach you what things do when they 
impress or strike against your skin. As to the cause of sensa- 
tion or feeling, there is no more mystery about this than there 
is about the cause of a stone falling, or a cork swimming or 
floating. It is true that I cannot tell you the cause (as it is 
called) of sensation, but so neither can you, nor any man, tell 
me the cause why stones fall and corks float — why things which 
are specifically lighter than water float on its surface, while 
things which are specifically heavier sink through it. The cause 
of seeing, we are told by modern optical philosophers, is the 
u vibration of ether"— which strikes against our eyes, and cause 
them in their turn to vibrate — viz., four hundred and eighty-two 
millions of millions of times in a second, in order to make us 
see an object red — that is, to make an object look red — and 
seven hundred and seven millions of millions of times in a second, 
in order to make an object appear violet-coloured. That these 
regular and measured vibrations do actually occur, and with this 
precise degree of velocity, is, I believe, beyond doubt. But what 
then ? We are still no nearer the cause of seeing than we were 



ABSTRACT IDEAS, 387 

before. These philosophers have only furnished us with a new 
name for seeing. Formerly we said, " I see a violet — what is 
the cause of seeing?" Now we may say: "my eyes are vibrating 
seven hundred and seven millions of millions of times in a 
second — what is the cause of these vibrations V 3 

Matter is the general name for whatever can be recognised by 
our senses. But the same portions of matter do not always 
affect our senses after the same manner. Thus, a stone at rest 
produces one effect, while a stone moving produces another. 
Nothing but our eyes or our skin can put into us the idea of a 
stone at rest ; and nothing but our eyes, also, can put into us 
the idea of a stone in motion. But when we have seen both a 
stone at rest and a stone in motion, we have still seen nothing 
but a stone ; and, therefore, have acquired no idea but the idea 
of a stone — -a stone, seen under different circumstances of relation 
to other objects, and therefore impressing our eyes in a different 
manner. The cause why a stone falls consists in the mutual 
relation which exists between it and the earth, and the medium 
through which it falls ; and the cause of sensation consists in the 
mutual relation which exists between ourselves and the things 
which surround us. The cause of internal sensations, hunger, 
love, &c. consists in the nature and constitution of living organ- 
ized, animal matter. We know nothing of these things, (any 
of them), excepting only that our senses inform us that they 
are so, and not otherwise. All that can be said of living animal 
matter is, that it is in its nature to feel or to have sensations, or 
that it possesses feelings. As much, but no more can be said of 
a falling stone, viz., that it is in its nature to fall, or that it pos- 
sesses weight or gravitation — gravitation signifying (something, 
anything) which does what those things do which fall. 

If you ask an unlearned man (who is often wiser than the 
learned) he will answer your question in a moment. He will 
pinch your ear, and say, " that is sensation V If you ask a 
philosopher, all the answer you will get will be a bushel of other 
words, which the one word sensation stands for. The clown 
gives you its meaning — the other merely gives you a definition 
of the word. The philosopher is struggling to make words 
stand us instead of our senses. He labours to make words put 



388 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

into us that information which nothing but our senses can put 
into us. Words can make us know nothing but words — nothing 
can make us acquainted with the realities of nature but our 
senses. The word stone can make us know nothing but the 
word stone — nothing can make us know a stone, or give us the 
idea of a stone, but our eye-sight — that is, a stone acting on the 
eye. If words cannot inform us of the meaning of so simple a 
word as stone, how can they be expected to inform us of the 
meaning of such words as sensation, feeling, hearing, gravi- 
tation, &c, which are all compound words ? If you have seen 
things which resemble a stone, then by calling to your mind these 
things I can put into you ideas which resemble the idea of a 
stone — but not the true and perfect idea of a stone itself. 
However near the resemblance may be, there will still be differ- 
ences, and those considerable. But if the resemblance were 
complete, still it would not be the idea of a stone, but only a 
facsimile of that idea. 

Cohesion — (something, anything) doing that which things do 
which cohere. If you want to know what appearance is 
presented to the eye by things which cohere, you must 
seek the information from your eyes. Your eyes, and 
nothing but your eyes, can answer the inquiry, and make 
you know that which you desire to know. Words can- 
not do it. Words can only define words — nothing but 
the sense can define things. From words we can derive 
no knowledge but the knowledge of words. Things 
alone (through our senses) can give us the knowledge of 
things. But philosophers are constantly mistaking 
words for things — and fancy they are discussing the 
nature of things, when they are only discussing defini- 
tions of words. 
" Newton defined all material bodies to be a congeries of 
corpuscles uniform, and alike; and hence inferred that the 
difference which bodies exhibit in colour, hardness, taste, &c, 
results from the different arrangement only of the corpuscles of 
which the bodies are composed. You perceive that the conclu- 
sion proceeds from the definition as irresistibly, as that a moon 
multiplied by twenty becomes twenty moons ; but whether 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 389 

nature conforms either to the multiplication or the deduction, 
depends on nature, and not on the process of multiplication and 
logic. But after material bodies are all resolved thus into little 
verbal corpuscles of a uniform size and shape, how came they to 
arrange themselves together so as to form gross, sensible bodies, 
of different shapes and sizes ? And even how do they adhere 
together at all ? Locke deemed this a great and even undis- 
coverable mystery ; and nothing is more evident from his 
remarks, than that he expected no other answer than a quantity 
of words. How curious a delusion ! The object sought is the 
sensible cohesion of matter into various shapes, sizes, &c. ; and 
the answer is not any revelation of the senses, but some sentences 
of words. What a curious mistake of words for things \" — 

A. B. Johnson. 

Being — (something, anything) doing what those things do 

which have houses — that is, performing those actions 

which are proper to animals — in a word, living. 

Understanding — to under-stand signifies to stand at the bottom 

of anything, as, for instance, a well. To understand an 

argument is to do what he does who stands at the bottom 

of a well — that is, to see everything which it contains— 

to stand in such a condition as enables his senses to take 

cognizance of everything contained in that, at the bottom 

of which, he stands. Understanding, therefore, means, 

(some one, any one) doing that which he does who 

stands at the bottom of a thing — whether it be a well, 

which enables him to see all that the well contains — or 

whether it be at the root, or bottom of, or under, a tree, 

which enables him, by looking up, to see whatever is 

contained among its branches. We still preserve this 

metaphorical manner of speaking clothed in other 

words : thus we say, " I will sift the whole matter to 

the bottom" 

Various similar examples will immediately occur to you. We 

usually, when we employ the two words under and standing 

separately, put the word standing before the word under, as 

standing under a tree. When we join the two words into one 

word we transpose them, and write and say under -standing 



390 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

instead of standing -under. This is our constant practice. Thus 
we say, match-making, clock-making, watch-making, not making- 
match, making-clock, making-watch. Nor do we say, goings- 
out, nor come-in, nor lay-out— but out-goings, in-come, and 
out-lay. If we transpose the phrase sifting to the bottom in the 
same manner, and so make it into one word, it will 'be to-the- 
bottom-sifting . Now I ask you — is it not, (without reservation 
or qualification) just as absurd to contend that a man contains 
within him some extraordinary, separately-existing, active being, 
whose name is understanding, merely because, by a trick of 
language, we have transposed the two words standing -under into 
the one word under-standing— is not this, I say, to the full and 
every tittle as absurd as it would be to say that there must exist 
in man some separate and active being, whose name is to-the- 
bottom-sifting, merely because these separate words can be 
transposed, if we so please, and united into one word ? It was 
accident alone which caused the framers of this word under- 
standing to draw their metaphor from a man standing under a 
tree, and looking up into its branches for game. The same 
accident might have led them to draw their metaphor (as we do, 
when we speak of sifting any circumstances to the bottom) from 
the actions of a man sifting corn. In that case the word would 
have been to-the-bottom-sifting — or, as that would have been a 
long word, they (if learned) would have gone to the Greek or 
Latin, and there found a shorter mode of expressing the same 
things, as they have done in numberless other instances. Then 
we should have had all those multiplied, and sometimes angry 
discussions, and absurd metaphysical farces, about the " human 
to-the-bottom-sifting^ which have been dealt out to the world 
about the " human under-standing." 

Substance — (something, anything) which does what the rock 
does, i. e. stands. It is merely the English word standing 
translated into the Latin language. The only difference 
between the meaning of him who uses the word sub- 
stance, and of him who uses the word standing, is, that 
the one speaks in Latin, and the other in English. 
Locke declares that we can form as good an idea of the 
substance of spirits as we can of the substance of matter. 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 391 

And this is true — for we can form no idea of either. 
We can form an idea of any portion of matter standing, 
or standing matter, but none whatever of substance apart 
from matter. Locke has written thirty closely printed 
pages about our several ideas of substance apart from 
matter. But Locke had not in his mind any definite 
meaning when he used the word idea. The truth is, 
there is no such thing in nature as an idea, any more 
than there is such a thing as substance — that is, apart 
from matter. As substance is a Latin word which 
signifies (something, anything,) standing, so 
Idea — is a Greek word signifying or standing for the English 
words (anything, something) which has been seen; and 
to say, " I have an idea of a horse" is merely to say, (by 
means of a different phraseology) " I have seen a horse." 
If the word idea be the name of any separate existence 
in the universe, then we could form an idea of that 
existence. But this would be to have an idea of an 
idea ! — from which common sense recoils. 
B. 
No such things as ideas ! 

A. 
None — nor any such things as memory, sensation — ■ 

B, 
Nor memory ! Nor sensation either ! Why, then, what in 
the world were you talking of, when you spoke of the "world 
without" and the " world of our own sensations V\ — When you 
referred all the so-called operations of the mind solely to the 
memory ? — when you asserted that ideas were nothing else but 
remembered sensations ? 

A. 
Take breath a little, and I will satisfy you. 
You will please to remember that my quarrel is not with 
language. I can conceive no contrivance more beautiful than 
that of language — nor anything better adapted to fulfil the 
office which it is intended to perform. I require no alteration 
in the language, either as to its natural structure or grammatical 
arrangement. I only require men to understand it. A child 



392 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

may read the books of Euclid all through without understanding 
a syllable of mathematics. Is it because the language of Euclid 
requires altering ? No. The language is well enough. The 
fault lies with the child who does not understand it. And 
besides, he who speaks at all must use words ; and he must use 
such words as the language in which he speaks affords. But 
though I am compelled thus to use words, and ?an only direct 
your attention to things through the medium of words, yet I 
desire you to know, let me use what words I will, that I always 
mean things. 

So long as it is always borne in mind that our words always 
refer to the realities of nature, it matters not what words, or 
what phraseology, we use. Thus we say, that " the sun rises." 
But everybody knows well enough that what is called the sun's 
rising depends, not on any motion of the sun, but on the motion 
of the earth. But it is not necessary to alter this form of speech, 
because the reality to which the phrase refers is known. We 
say one thing, but it is well known that we mean another. And 
since our meaning is known, that is sufficient. We say the sun 
moves from east to west. But everybody knows that what we 
mean is, that the earth, and not the sun, moves from west to 
east. In teaching children the first lessons of astronomy, the 
language used throughout implies, or rather directly asserts, 
that the sun moves round the earth. But care is taken to make 
the child understand, once for all, that although he uses this 
language, yet that he really means that it is the earth, and not 
the sun, which performs all the motions in question. And the 
child, having been thus warned as to the real meaning of the 
teacher's language, and as to the reality of nature, is in no 
danger of being deceived. 

My object is to warn you, with regard to language in general, 
of the same thing of which the teacher thus warns his pupil. To 
warn you that in other matters, as well as in matters of astronomy, 
our language constantly asserts one thing, while we really mean 
quite another — and that, in order to avoid self-deception and 
misunderstanding, we must, not only in matters of astronomical 
language, but on all occasions, constantly interpret lan- 
guage according to the realities or nature. Thus, when I 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 393 

say, I possess the idea of a horse in my mind, I do not mean by 
the word " possess" that an idea is a something or other that 
can be possessed after the manner of goods and chattels — that 
is, locked up in a box, or kept in a cupboard, or carried about 
either in my pocket, or stowed away in any part of my body. 
Let not this word "possess" deceive you into the error of 
supposing that it can only be used with reference to things — 
that we cannot use it, excepting when there is something to be 
possessed — for we constantly use it when it is impossible that 
there should be anything to be possessed. Do we not constantly 
say, he "possesses nothing?" Nor do I mean, by the phrase 
"in my mind" that my mind is a something or other resembling 
a box, or a cupboard, or any other hollow thing in which the 
idea is contained. No — it is a mere form of speech. It is 
merely another way of saying that I have seen a horse, and have 
not forgotten it. The idea of a horse is simply an ideal horse — 
that is, a seen horse. My idea of a horse is my ideal horse, or a 
horse which I have seen. Your idea of a horse is your ideal 
horse, or a horse which you have seen. But I am not one thing, 
and the horse a second thing, and the idea of the horse a third 
thing ! No, there are but two things spoken of, viz. I and the 
horse. The word idea, applied to the horse, merely imports that 
the horse spoken of is a horse which I have seen. 

There is no such thing, therefore, as the idea of a horse, or of 
anything else. The idea of a horse is merely an ideal horse, or 
a horse which has been seen. And when I say, " I have an idea 
of a horse" — and when I say, " I have seen a horse" — I do but 
express the same thing in two different languages — the word 
idea being the Greek for " seen" In the second phrase, there 
is no excuse for supposing the existence of a third thing called 
an idea, for there is no word in the phrase to denote it. The 
letter / is a symbol which stands for my name, the word horse 
is clearly the name of a sensible object called by that name, and 
the verb " have seen" is used to denote that that thing called 
horse has produced upon that other thing, (myself) represented 
by the letter I, that effect called seeing, seeming, or appearing. 
Eut the word seeing or appearing is not the name of anything 
apart from the horse. It is another name given to the horse 

2s 



394 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

itself (for the time being) in order to inform you that the horse 
spoken of is not any horse whatever, but only one of those 
particular horses which have been so placed as to reflect the rays 
of light upon the retina of my eye. And so when I say, I 
possess a mind, I merely mean that things which have been 
revealed to my senses have not been forgotten — but are still 
myned things — that is, remembered things. So when I speak 
of remembered sensations, I still desire you to know that my 
words are to be interpreted, not according to their direct 
apparent import, but accordingly with the realities of nature. 
By remembered sensations I mean those things which have 
impressed my senses, and which are still unforgotten. I have 
shown you that the act of seeing is not an act performed by us, 
but by things upon us. When, therefore, I say, ee I can see," I 
desire you to interpret my words according to the realities of 
nature, and to understand that, although I say, " I perform the 
act of seeing," I really mean, not that I am performing any 
operation, but that something else is performing an operation, 
that is, producing an effect, upon my eyes — just as, when I say, 
" the sun moves from east to west," you always understand me 
to mean that the earth moves from west to east. So again, 
when I say, I possess a memory, I do not mean that there is 
any such thing in existence as memory— I merely mean that the 
things which have revealed themselves to my eyes, ears, skin, 
tongue, nose, have not been forgotten. By the word memory, 
I merely mean remembered things. I do not mean that any 
particular object is one thing, and the memory of that object 
another thing, and myself a third thing ! No — I merely mean 
that that particular object has been placed in such a relation 
with regard to my organs, that it has produced that effect upon 
them (my organs) which the nature of that object and the 
nature of those organs are calculated to produce and receive. 
An idea, therefore, is a seen thing — something, anything, seen. 
It is the name of a real thing — some sensible object — and not 
of an incomprehensible no-body-knows-what. 

Although, therefore, there are no such things as memory, 
mind, intellect, ideas, sensations, motion, action, &c. &c- — and 
although there are no such operations performed by us as seeing, 



ABSTRACT IDEAS, 395 

feeling, tasting, smelling, hearing— and although, (since there 
are no such things as memory, mind, ideas, &c.) there can be, 
of course, no operations performed by them — yet I shall still 
continue to speak of all these things as though they were real 
existences — and of these operations, as though they were actually 
performed by us, and by our minds, memories, &c. &c. And I 
do this for the same reason that we still continue to talk of the 
"sun's track" — the "sun's declination" — the "sun's path"-— 
the " course of the sun" — the " motion of the sun from east to 
west," &c. &c, and a thousand other familiar modes of speech 
which deceive no one, because all are familiar with the natural 
realities which they are meant to indicate. 

I desire you, therefore, on all occasions to interpret my 
language by the realities of nature — or, in other words, by the 
evidence of your senses. For it is by the senses alone that the 
realities of nature can be discovered. Remember, once for all, 
that words can do no more than direct our attention to the 
evidence of our senses. In the words of A. B. Johnson, they 
can do no more than refer us to our senses. No words 
can discourse into a blind man the idea of colour — no written 
words can discourse the sound of a trumpet into a deaf man — 
no words can discourse the fragrance of the rose into a man 
destitute of smell — and so on with the other senses. 

Things, therefore, and things only, can put ideas into us ; and 
ideas themselves are nothing more than things seen. But, for 
convenience sake, and in order to avoid a multiplicity of words, 
the term idea, although etymologically only applicable to things 
seen, has been extended in its signification, and used to denote, not 
only things seen, but also things heard, felt, tasted, and smelted. 

I shall continue, therefore, in spite of its strict etymological 
sense, to use the word idea in order to indicate, not only things 
which have manifested themselves to the sense of sight, but also 
things which have manifested themselves to any of the other 
senses. I shall also use the phrase "forms of things" in the 
same extended sense — and I beg of you to bear this particularly 
in mind. Or, if you will only bear in mind that my language is 
always to be interpreted by the realities of nature, that of itself 
will be sufficient to enable you clearly to understand me. 

2e 2 



396 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

I must once more repeat that words can do no more than 
refer us to our senses. They cannot put into us the idea of the 
very commonest and simplest object. They cannot put the idea 
even of a poker into a man who has never seen a poker. They 
may recal to his mind certain other things which resemble a 
poker, and thus give him an idea resembling the idea of a poker 
■ — but no words can convey to a man the idea of a poker who 
has never seen one — for the idea of a poker is a seen poker. 
But even these ideas which resemble a poker are not put into him 
by words. They are all previously put into him by things, and 
all that words can do is to cause him to remember them. Thus 
if I tell a native of Hindostan that a poker is a bar of iron three 
feet long, " and an inch in circumference, I give him an idea 
resembling the idea of a poker ; but you must never forget that 
this idea of a bar of iron, which I thus recal to his mind, he 
could never have possessed had he never seen a bar of iron. 

I have in my possession a pair of Asselinr's forceps for the 
purpose of taking up arteries. If you have never seen a pair of 
Asselinr's forceps, nothing but seeing them can give you an idea 
of them. I may call to your mind other forceps, and explain 
wherein these differ from Asselinr's — and thus I may manage to 
give you what we call a " tolerably correct" idea of Asselinr's — 
that is, an idea somewhat resembling the correct idea — but it 
is perfectly manifest that a thing, and a thing somewhat resembling 
that thing, are still perfectly distinct things. Nothing can give 
you an idea of Asselinr's forceps, but seeing Asselinr's forceps. 

I have probably a " tolerably correct idea" of the countenance 
of Napoleon. But will anybody pretend to tell me that if I 
could see Napoleon's actual living countenance, I should not 
instantly discover that my idea was inaccurate ? All men will 
readily admit, that although I may have in my mind an idea 
somewhat resembling the true idea of Napoleon's countenance, 
nothing can put into me the true and bona fide idea of that 
countenance, but that countenance itself. And it is quite clear 
that I could not have an idea even resembling that countenance 
if I had never seen a human countenance of any kind. 

There is a part of the brain called pons varolii, which probably 
you have never seen. In order to give you some tolerable idea 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 397 

resembling the pons varolii I may describe it. I may tell you 
that it somewhat resembles a bridge. But the idea you will 
thus get will be the idea of a bridge, and not of any part of the 
brain. Nothing can put into you the true idea of the pons 
verolii but your own eyes. There is another part called the 
torcular herophili. I may describe this by telling you that it is 
something like a wine-press. But the idea you will thus get 
will be the idea of a wine-press, and not of any part of the 
human brain. There are many other parts of the body which I 
might use to illustrate the fact, that we can get no ideas but 
such as those which come in at the senses. Such are the stapes, 
the malleus, the incus — that is, the stirrup, the hammer, the 
anvil. All the ideas you can gather from these words are the 
ideas of a stirrup, a hammer, and an anvil. But neither these 
words, nor any other, can put into you the ideas of those bones 
which are called by these names. Nothing can do this but your 
senses, and the bones themselves. I might draw these bones on 
paper. This would give you ideas still more resembling the 
true ideas. But still they would not be the true ideas, but only 
ideas resembling the true ideas. And whenever you met with 
these words they would recal to your mind, not the ideas of the 
bones, but only of those pictures of the bones which I had 
drawn. But even the ideas of these pictures — it is not through 
ivords that you get even these, but through your , eye- sight. 

The ideas which each individual man possesses are extremely 
few. Their number is exactly equal to the number of things 
which he has seen, felt, heard, tasted, or smelled — and has not 
forgotten. And that is sufficient. Eor although the individual 
things whereof creation is composed are numberless, yet they 
may all be distributed into a few classes, so that all the individuals 
of each class shall bear more or less resemblance to all the others 
of that class. A man, therefore, whose senses have made him 
acquainted with one individual of each class, is said to have a 
general idea of the whole. But this is not true. The only idea 
he really has is of the individual which he has seen, felt, &c. 
Thus I am said to have an idea of the human countenance in 
general — that is, of all human countenances. But this is 
manifestly not so. The only ideas of the human countenance X 



398 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

have are those of the human countenances which I have seen, I 
am said to have a general idea of Napoleon's countenance. But, 
in truth, the idea I have is only an idea resembling it — which I 
have acquired through my sense of sight, by looking at his 
portraits — no two of which are probably exactly alike— and 
therefore certainly not exactly like the countenance itself. When 
a man, who has never seen an antelope, is told that it is an 
animal very like a small deer, he is said to have acquired a new 
idea — the idea of an antelope. But in truth he has acquired no 
new idea at all. He has only acquired a new name for an old 
idea. The only idea he has is still that of a deer only — and 
whenever he hears the word antelope, he will, in his mind, 
translate the word antelope into the words small deer ; and if the 
word bring into his mind any idea at all, it will be, and can only 
be, the idea of a small deer. 

Our knowledge, therefore, consists not of a multitude of ideas 
of a multitude of things, but of a few ideas resembling a multitude 
of things. Our ideas are few — but each idea bears a greater or 
less resemblance to a whole class, and serves us instead of the 
actual ideas of all the individuals composing a whole class. But 
whenever we converse about any of those individuals of a class 
which we have not seen, we are, in fact, only conversing about 
those individuals of the same class which we have seen. I can 
converse about horses in general, and men in general, and trees 
in general. But, in fact, I am all the time only conversing 
about those particular horses, and men, and trees which I have 
seen — only taking care to deprive them (mentally) of those 
unimportant individual differences, as for instance of color, size, 
&c, which distinguish one individual from another, and viewing 
them only with regard to those great general characteristics 
which are common to the whole class. 

All ideas, therefore, are particular — and there is no such 
thing as a general idea, any more than an abstract idea. This 
is not a new doctrine, but a very old one — as old as the eleventh 
century — and the nominalists, who propagated it, took for their 
motto, " Nihil in intellectu quod non prius in sensu" — that is, 
iS there can be nothing in the intellect which was not admitted 
by the senses." How came a doctrine so simple, so manifestly 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 399 

true, so perfectly conformable to nature, to be ever laid aside ? 
The answer is plain enough. They were asked, what is intellect ? 
What is mind ? What are ideas ? &c. &c. Do these come in 
by the senses ? and they could not answer these questions 
satisfactorily, for want of understanding the nature and purpose 
of language, and for want of knowing that those operations 
called the operations of mind, are merely so many operations 
performed by things upon us, and not by us upon things. 
They could not account for the presence in all languages of such 
words as intellect and mind — they did not know what they 
mean, nor what purpose they serve. In order to reconcile this 
discrepancy, Leibnitz extended their motto, making it, " Nihil in 
intellectu quod non prius in sensu, nisi ipse intellectus" — that is, 
11 there is nothing in the intellect which was not admitted by 
the senses, except the intellect itself. Had Leibnitz known that 
both the words intellect and mind are merely past participles, 
signifying the things which have impressed their effects upon 
our nerves, he would have spared himself the egregious absurdity 
of talking about the intellect being " in itself." " There is," 
says Leibnitz, " nothing in the intellect, except the intellect 
itself \ 33 How can a thing be contained within itself ? 

Very much, therefore, of our knowledge consists, not of ideas 
of things, but of ideas resembling the ideas of things. And it is 
this fact which fills all languages with such multitudes of meta- 
phors. We can scarcely utter a sentence which does not contain 
a metaphor. Nay, there are whole hosts of words, each indi- 
vidual word of which contains a metaphor in itself — that is, which 
implies a comparison — a similitude — a resemblance. Such are 
the words we are now discussing. The word motion, for instance, 
signifies (something, anything) doing that which those things do 
Which move — that is, affecting our sense of sight after a like or 
similar manner — affecting our senses in a manner which resem- 
bles the manner in which moving objects affect them. 

We can acquire, then, no idea whatever through any other 
means than the senses. No human effort, no human contrivance, 
can put one single idea into me. Every idea, of whatever kind, 
must come in at the senses. 

But Locke says there are ideas which we acquire by reflection. 



400 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

What does lie mean by reflection ? He tells you himself. He 
says the mind bends back upon itself, and takes a view of its own 
operations. Locke here endeavours to make himself understood 
by comparing the mind to an elastic body — as, for instance, an 
osier twig. But in order that a comparison may assist our 
understanding, there must clearly be some point of resemblance 
between the things compared. If in conversing with you I make 
use of the term scalpel, and if you do not know the meaning of 
the word, having never seen a scalpel, nor heard the word used 
before, then I make my words intelligible to you by telling you 
that a scalpel is a kind of knife — that is, of kin to, or something 
like, a knife. This comparison of a scalpel with a knife makes 
me intelligible, because the two things are, in all essentials, 
actually similar to each other. They are both cutting instru- 
ments, made of steel ; and this general resemblance is sufficient 
to ^enable you to understand what I mean by a scalpel. But 
when Locke compared the mind to an osier twig, or any other 
elastic body, did Locke really mean that the mind is an elastic 
material body ? No— he would, had he been asked, have 
declared the mind to be immaterial. In what particular then 
does the mind resemble an elastic body? In no one single 
particular of any kind whatever ! And this Locke himself 
would have confessed ! What then are we the wiser for the 
comparison ? Not one iota. If the mind did really resemble 
elastic bodies — had, like elastic bodies, the property of bending — 
then the illustration would have enlightened us, and exemplified 
Locke's meaning. But no two things can possibly be more 
diametrically unlike than material and immaterial things. They 
stand in the same relation to each other as something does to 
nothing — as darkness does to light — as poverty does to riches. 
How then can the one illustrate the other ? If the mind can 
bend back upon itself, and recover its former position, then the 
mind is an elastic body. But the mind is not an elastic body — 
therefore the mind cannot bend back upon itself. 

Here, then, Locke compares two things, between which there 
is no one single point of resemblance. He seeks to explain the 
nature of one thing by telling us that it is like another things 
which other thing it is not like in any one particular. When he 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 401 

says, " tlie mind takes a view of its own operations/' he is com- 
paring the mind to some animal having eyes. But did he really 
mean that the mind has eyes ? No — he merely speaks compara- 
tively. But unless the mind be supposed to be some material 
being having eyes, he is again comparing two things which are 
not alike. All that his comparison amounts to, is this — that if 
the mind were an animal, having the eyes of an animal, then, 
when the mind takes a view of its own operations, it does that 
which an animal would do which should look at itself while per- 
forming any action. But the mind is not an animal, nor does it 
possess eyes, nor any bodily organ doing duty for an eye, nor has 
it any one point of resemblance to an animal, or to an eye. 

Locke's metaphor, therefore, is utterly insignificant. His 
illustration is an illustration which throws no light — his expla- 
nation an explanation which explains nothing. I might as well 
attempt to explain to you what I mean by the word scalpel, by 
comparing it with the Peak of Teneriffe, or with the great 
Nassau balloon. It is utterly and unconditionally absurd to the 
very lowest degree, to talk of the mind's bending back, or taking 
a View of its own operations. Nothing can bend back but 
flexible bodies — and nothing can "take a view" but things which 
have eyes ; and to suppose that the mind can bend back is to 
suppose that it possesses the properties of flexible bodies — 
and to suppose that it can see, or take a view, is to suppose 
that it possesses seeing organs — a supposition which nobody 
(not Locke himself) can, for a moment, suppose. When Locke 
talks of the mind bending back upon itself, he is, in fact, not 
talking of the mind at all, but of elastic bodies which he has 
seen bend back upon themselves. And when he talks of the 
mind " taking a view," he is, in fact, talking of those things 
(animals) which he has seen using their eyes. In the one in- 
stance he has converted the mind (for the time being) into an 
elastic body, and talks about it accordingly. In the other in- 
stance he converts it (for the time being) into an animal with 
eyes, and talks about it as though it were actually a being posess- 
ing seeing organs. But had any one asked him whether he 
really supposed the mind to be either of these things, or to 
resemble either of these things in any one particular, he would 



402 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

instantly have answered, no — the mind is immaterial — and 
therefore can possess nothing in common with things which are 
material. What then does he mean by the mind bending back? 
He means nothing at all. Or if he do mean anything, it can by 
possibility be only this — that if the mind were an elastic body, it 
could bend back — and if the mind were an animal with eyes, it 
could "take a view" by means of those eyes. But the mind is 
neither one nor the other, and therefore all that he has said 
about it amounts to nothing. 

Since the mind, therefore, (having no one point of resem- 
blance to elastic bodies) cannot bend back — and since the mind 
(having' no one point of resemblance to things which have eyes) 
cannot " take a view"- — what becomes of all those ideas which 
Locke supposed to be derived from the mind " bending back on 
itself, and taking a view of its own operations V 9 I mean his 
so-called ideas of reflection. There are no such ideas. There 
are no ideas of any kind excepting those which come to us 
directly through our senses ; and those words which Locke sup- 
posed to be the signs of " ideas of reflection," are not the signs 
of any ideas at all. They are merely the signs of other words. 
" The idea of perception," says Locke, " we have from reflec- 
tion." Ridiculous ! The word perception is merely a Latin 
word, signifying (something, anything) doing that which those 
things do which "take through" — i. e. through the senses. The 
Latin word to perceive, is exactly equivalent to the English 
words to take through. And when I say, "I perceive," and 
when I say, " I take through," I do but express one and the 
same thing in two different languages. When I say, I possess 
perception, I do but say that I possess "something which 
I have taken in through" my senses. The perception of 
a tree, is a tree taken in through my senses— that is, a tree 
which has impressed my senses — just as an idea of a tree is a 
tree which I have seen, that is, which has impressed my organs 
of sight. The English words, " a taking -in/ 9 answer exactly to 
the Latin expression, " a 'perception 99 And who ever heard or 
dreamed of such an idea as the idea of " a taking-in" ? But 
you know we are to interpret language according to the realities 
of nature. And you also know that, according to the realities of 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 403 

nature, it is not we who perform the act of perceiving, but it is 
things which produce certain effects upon us. Although, there- 
fore, according to etymology, the word perception signifies 
(something, anything) doing that which those things do which 
perceive, yet what we must really mean by the word is this — 
(something, anything) producing an effect upon our organs — 
just as, though seeing means according to the direct interpreta- 
tion of the word, (some one, any one) doing that which those 
things do which have eyes, yet what we really mean by the word 
is, (something, anything) affecting our eyes — or making an im- 
pression upon our eyes. The word perception, therefore, is 
merely a symbol which stands for the words following, viz., 
(something, anything) which reveals itself to our senses — it may 
be a house, or a horse, or the moon — and there is no such idea 
as the idea of perception. If the perception spoken of be the 
perception of the moon, then the phrase, " perception of the 
moon," signifies "the moon perceived" — that is, the appearance, 
or form, or likeness of the moon, received or taken in through 
our organs of sight — in two words, a seen moon. 

Locke was misled by taking it for granted that the operations 
which things perform upon us, are operations performed by us, or 
by our minds, upon things. Had he interpreted language by the 
realities of nature, instead of seeking to make nature conform to 
language, he could not have been led into such puerile error. All 
the operations (excepting speaking) which Locke supposed to be 
performed by the mind, are, in fact, only so many effects pro- 
duced by things upon our nervous system. Even our internal 
sensations obey this law. Intoxication is an effect produced upon 
the nervous system by ardent spirit brought into contact with 
it, and here ardent spirit is the thing which things the drunken 
man to action, and produces and governs his conduct, and is 
the cause of the sensations which he experiences. A man who 
has taken tartar emetic experiences that internal feeling called 
sickness, and here tartar emetic is the thing which impresses or 
operates upon his nervous system. 

The internal natural sensations are impressions made upon 
the nervous system by the other component parts of the 
body — of which probably the blood, in its various conditions, 



404 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

and its properties varying as its condition varies, is the most 
influential. 



OF WORDS ENDING IN NESS, 

You will remember that our word like, formerly written lie, 
signifies the skin. Thus, when we say that John is like William, 
we do, in fact, say that John has the skin of William. What 
we mean is, merely that the skin of John (which is all we can 
see of John — and the external covering is all we can see of 
anything) affects our organs of sight in a similar manner to the 
skin of William. The phrase merely implies a comparison and 
resemblance. Thus we say, " such and such an one is a perfect 
brute." But we do not mean that the man is actually a brute, 
but merely that he resembles a brute — that is, in his conduct. 
So when our ancestors said, " John has the skin of William," 
they merely meant to institute a comparison, and denote a re- 
semblance. They merely meant that John resembled William — 
that is, in his external appearance. Hence the word eventually 
came to be used as a general term, in order to denote a resem- 
blance, or appearance, or similarity, of any kind. In like man- 
ner, the word ness signifies a promontory, or anything which 
juts out, and makes itself more plainly manifest than the other 
things wherewith it is surrounded. And thus, because that 
part of the coast which juts out into the sea, is the first portion 
of land which makes its appearance to those who are approaching 
it from the sea — and because mountain tops, and rocks, and tall 
trees, and all such things as jut out above or beyond other things, 
are the only appearances which are distinctly visible at a dis- 
tance — and give a character, and stamp an individuality upon 
any landscape — constituting the appearance which distinguishes 
one landscape from another — the word ness eventually became a 
general term used to denote what we now denote by the Latin 
word appearance. Thus you will find that all our words ending in 
ness contain within themselves the sense of this word appearance. 
Thus, when I say, this picture is a good like-ness of John, the 
resolution will be — this picture has the appearance of the skin of 
John — or, the appearance of this picture is the appearance of 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 405 

John. For both words are general terms, signifying appearance, 
as I have shown above. Thus 

Whiteness — signifies, "the appearance of things which are white." 
"White is the general name which we give to all those 
things which affect our sense of sight in a particular 
manner. Originally it was the particular name of some 
one particular thing, afterwards extended to signify all 
other things which resembled that particular thing. Let us 
suppose that one thing to be snow — for since every general term 
is the name of each one of the particulars of which the general is 
made up, the word white is as certainly the name of snow, as it 
is of any other white thing — and since we know it to have been 
originally the particular name of some one white thing or other, 
and afterwards to have had its signification extended to all other 
things resembling that one; and since all white things resemble 
one another more or less, it is a matter of no consequence of 
what particular thing we make it the particular name, so long as 
it be a white one. Supposing white, therefore, to have been the 
particular name of snow, then whiteness signifies the appearance 
of snow. But we do happen to know that the word white was 
originally the name given to what we now call foam. Therefore 
whiteness signifies the appearance of foam. 

You perceive it makes no difference to the sense, or to the 
argument, whether I give to the word white the supposed mean- 
ing of snow, or its real meaning of foam. 

Thickness — the appearance of things which are thick. When I 

say a thing possesses thickness, I merely assert that it 

affects my organs of sight after the manner of things 

which are thick. And thus a piece of canvass, whereon a 

book, or a brick, or any other thick object, is made to 

assume the appearance of prominence, does as truly possess 

thickness as a veritable brick — since it affects our organs of 

sight after the same manner — which is all the word implies. 

" But/'' says Dr. Reid, " we know that the book on the canvass 

is not actually thick, but is a flat surface merely" — which only 

amounts to this — that the picture resembles a thick thing to the 

eye, but does not resemble a thick thing to the touch. The 



406 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

word implies nothing more than resemblance to thick things— 
which may be more or less complete — and which resemblance 
may be recognised by one sense only, or by two. Dr. Reid 
speaks of the idea of thichiess. Bnt as there is no such thing as 
thickness, nor any snch thing as whiteness, so neither can there 
be any snch ideas as the idea of thickness, or of whiteness. 
There are things resembling thick things, and things resembling 
foam — that is, white things — and so there are ideas of these 
things. Which only means that there are certain things which 
always produce certain effects upon our senses, and that to these 
things we have given the additional names of white and thick 
in order to distinguish them from other things which affect 
our senses differently. 

The phrase, therefore, idea of whiteness, when interpreted 
according to the realities of nature, and not according to the 
mysterious jargon of metaphysicians, simply means a white thing 
seen. And idea of thickness simply means a thick thing seen 
only, or a thick thing felt only, or a thick thing both seen 
and felt. A prominent object represented on canvass is a thick 
thing seen— that is, a something affecting our organs of sight 
(but not of touch) after the manner in which thick things 
affect the same organs. 

Here is, you observe, an entire pane of glass. It now affects 
our organs of sight in one uniform particular manner. I strike 
it a smart blow with this stone, and there is now what we call a 
crack running quite through it. But it must be quite manifest 
to you that, in reality, there is no such thing as crack ! I have 
merely tapped the glass with a stone. In doing this, I can have 
added nothing to it ! nor taken anything from it ! There is 
nothing there which was not there before. I have merely 
altered the relation between the several parts composing the 
glass. The idea I had before was the idea of a pane of glass. 
The idea I have now is still the idea of a pane of glass. But 
the glass, having had the relation of its parts altered, produces 
now a different effect upon my organs of sight. To mark this 
difference of effect I give the same pane of glass a different 
name. Before, its name was simply a pane of glass, or a pane 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 407 

of glass entire — now, I call it (the same pane of glass) a pane of 
glass cracked — or a pane of glass with a crack in it. We talk of 
the idea of a crack. But all language, to be significant, must 
be interpreted by the realities of nature. When, therefore, we 
talk of the idea of a crack, our language must be interpreted to 
signify the idea of (something, anything) cracked. The idea is 
an idea, not of a crack, but of a thing cracked. Take away the 
glass, and what becomes of the crack ? Take away the idea of 
the glass, and what becomes of the idea of the crack ? But if 
there really did exist any such thing as the idea of a crack, then 
that idea would still exist after you had dismissed the idea of 
the glass. Therefore, although there be things which are 
cracked — which are called cracked — which go by the name of 
cracked — there are no such things as cracks. So, although 
there be things which are white, and things which are black, 
there are no such things as whiteness or blackness ; and, of 
course, therefore, no such ideas as those of whiteness or 
blackness. 

Space — since an idea is (something, anything) seen — or, in its 

more extended acceptation, recognised by some one or 

more of our senses, it is quite clear that we can have no 

idea of space. We can have ideas of two or more things 

standing apart, and of whatever things we can see 

between them — but no idea of space. I do not know the 

original thing of which the Latin word space is the name. But 

the English equivalent, viz. the word room, which is the Dutch 

word ruim, signifies a ship's hold. The Latin word rima, and 

the Greek ruma, and the English word room, and the Dutch 

ruim, are evidently but one word. Now the Latin word rima 

signifies a chink or crack. And as I have already shown you 

that there is no such thing as crack, so neither is there any such 

thing as space, or room, or chink. 

Mr. E. Bushby, after admitting that there is possibly no such 
thing as space, gravely proceeds to assure us that we may 
obtain a very clear idea of it, nevertheless, by watching two 
bodies gradually approaching each other till they touch. Why, 
then, whoever does take the trouble to watch two such bodies, 



408 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

will get an idea of two bodies approximating towards each other, 
and also an idea of whatever can be seen between them before 
they do touch — and that's all. This supposed idea of space is 
what Mr. E. Bushby calls a negative idea — that is, a no-idea. 
He could not have christened it by a more appropriate title. An 
idea is a thing seen, or otherwise recognised by our senses. But 
we can neither see, feel, hear, taste, nor smell space, and there- 
fore there can be no such thing, nor any such idea. I say, no 
such thing — because the word thing signifies whatever can be 
recognised by our senses. 

What is a well ? A hole in the earth. But what is a hole ? 
There is no such thing, nor have we any idea of any such thing. 
The word hole is like the word crack. We can have an idea of 
the earth round about the well, and of the sides of the well. 
But this is all. You might as well assert that you can have an 
idea of a washing tub independent of its sides and bottom. For 
what is a washing tub but a hole in wood, just as a well is a 
hole in the earth ? Make the edges of a washing tub a mile 
thick instead of an inch, and its depth sixty feet instead of one, 
and what is it but a well sunk in wood ? But can you form an 
idea of a washing tub independent of its sides and bottom ? 
Clearly not. So neither can you form an idea of a well 
independent of its sides and bottom. The word space is in the 
same predicament. The words hole, space, room, well, crack, 
are only so many symbols standing for all those words, which 
would otherwise be necessary in order to describe the appearance 
which things present after the relation of these several parts has 
been altered. Etymologically the word room is a symbol 
standing for the words (anything, something) resembling a 
ship's hold. When you stand in a ship's hold, your view is 
bounded by the top, bottom, and sides — and of these, and these 
alone, we can have ideas. When you stand upon a hill-top, 
your view is bounded in like manner by the sky above, the earth 
beneath, and the horizon all round — and of these, and these 
alone, we can have ideas. To the whole scene, (whether in the 
ship, or on the hill-top) including the boundaries, and whatever 
is contained within them, we give the name room. 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 409 

The scene from the hill-top is but a ship's hold of larger 
dimensions, and different materials. 

It is quite clear that Locke and his successors used the word 
idea as a mere word, and a mere word only — a sound without 
sense — a sign signifying nothing. And, therefore, all their talk 
about ideas was only so much talk about the word idea, and not 
about any thing or things of which that word was the sign. 
This I say is quite clear — otherwise Mr. Bushby could never 
have supposed it possible to form an idea of space, even although 
there be no such thing as space in rerum natura — nor could the 
shrewd and sagacious Locke have suffered himself to be duped 
by the trickery of language into so monstrous a supposition as 
that which supposes us able to form an idea of nothing. 

We get our idea of nothing, says Locke, by first summoning 
to our minds certain ideas of things, and then immediately 
dismissing them. What a curious mode of enriching our minds 
with ideas ! How much should I be enriched in my purse by 
taking from yours twenty guineas, and immediately restoring 
them ? The words no and thing, although joined by the 
stroke of the pen, and placed in juxta-position by the printer, 
are yet as distinctly two words as though they had never been 
joined. You and the printer may join together the two words 
no and man, as we have already joined the two words no and 
body, and as the Latins joined the two words ne and homo into 
the one word nemo, which signifies no man or nobody. But 
when you have so joined the two words no and man, will that 
circumstance make them the less certainly two distinct words 
than they were before ? Clearly not. House-breaker are not the 
less certainly two words because united by the hyphen — nor 
would they be were they united without the hyphen. But 
surely to have an idea of no-man signifies not to have an idea of 
any man — or, to have no idea of any man. And, by the same 
rule, to have an idea of no-thing means not to have an idea of 
anything — or, to have no idea of anything. 
Distance — we can have no idea of distance, nor is there any such 
thing as distance. The word is a Latin present par- 
ticiple, signifying (something, anything) standing apart 
from (something, anything, else.) Of these things 

2 F 



410 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

standing apart we can have ideas, but not of distance 
apart from things. 
Number — we can have ideas of things numbered, but not of 
number apart from things. The word number is a word 
merely, as the figure 7 is a figure merely — both being 
without signification until applied to things. 
Essence — (something, anything) performing the act of eating. 
I maintain that this is the plain and only meaning of 
the word — and let those who use it in any other sense re- 
concile their use of it with common sense as they best can. 
The word is neither more nor less than a Latin present 
participle (a mongrel one, I admit) and signifies eating. 
The reason why the word came to be used as we now use it is 
this. The act of eating is that which characterizes animals, and 
distinguishes them from all other things. Hence, when we 
speak of the essence of a thing, we mean that (whatever it is) 
which distinguishes that thing from all others — which stamps a 
character and an individuality upon it, causing it to be what it 
is. Thus the word was used to designate those essential oils 
which impart to certain vegetables their peculiar and character- 
istic odors, apart from the grosser matters of which the plants 
consist. The essence of peppermint is that which stamps a 
peculiar and distinguishing character upon the plant called 
peppermint, distinguishing it from all other odoriferous plants. 
Pain — from pinan, to torment, to punish — that which those feel 
who are punished. This is the verbal meaning. If you 
want to know the meaning in nature, I must send you 
to your senses to inquire, in this case, as in the case of 
every other word. If there were any other thing in the 
universe which resembled pain, then, by calling that thing to 
your remembrance, I could thus, by means of words, give you 
an idea resembling pain, without sending you to your senses — 
as in the case of common objects of sight. But as pain has no 
similitude, I must send you at once to your senses for informa- 
tion as to the manner in which it reveals itself to the senses — 
as I must also do with regard to the commonest object of sight 
supposing you had never seen anything else which, in the 
remotest degree, resembled it. Thus if you had never seen 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 411 

anything, which in any manner bore the slightest resemblance 
to a poker, then nothing but a poker could give you the idea of 
a poker. Pain signifies the effect upon— the something done 
to — those who are punished. If you would know the meaning 
of these words, viz. " effect upon" or " something done to/' you 
must experience their meaning — words cannot tell it — any 
more than they can tell what crack means. 
Will — there is no such thing as will, nor can we therefore have 
any idea of will. The word, standing by itself, is a 
mere algebraical sign of other words, and means no more 
than x, or y, or z. What the particular words are for 
which it stands depends upon the sentence in which it is 
used ; and the structure of the sentence depends upon the 
speaker. Thus, if I say, u I possess the will to eat," I simply 
mean that I am moved to eat. What moves me ? hunger. But 
if, although hungry, I have the will to refrain from eating ; 
what moves me to refrain ? The memory of the inconvenience 
which I have before suffered from eating — which latter motive, 
being the stronger, I obey. Will is a symbol used as the sign 
of whatever is the cause of our actions. It is a general term, 
and can, like all general terms, communicate no ideas until it 
has been reduced to a particular term. It is, like x, the sign of 
an unknown thing, and has no meaning until that unknown 
thing has become a known thing, and then it means that thing 
whatever it turns out to be. 

All general terms are symbols standing for the particular 
names of a whole class of things. Thus the word man stands 
for that whole class of things called men. General terms can 
excite ideas, but they cannot communicate ideas — nothing can 
do that but particular names. Thus, the word man can bring 
the remembrance or idea of some man or other to the mind. 
But if there be in your mind the idea of some one man, and you 
desire to communicate that idea to me— that is, to make it 
common to us both — the word man cannot do it. In order to 
communicate that idea you must use a particular term, as 
Mr. Williams. Man is a mere symbol standing for any and all 
of the particular names of all men ; and therefore cannot point 
to any one in particular more than another; and therefore 

2 f 2 



412 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

cannot communicate ideas. For all ideas are particular, and 
therefore can only be communicated by particular names. 

So the word will is a general term for a whole class of things 
■ — viz. for whatever moves us to action. The act of willing, like 
the acts of seeing, hearing, &c, has been mistaken for an act 
performed by us, whereas it is an act performed upon us. If I 
am pursued by a mad bull, it is not I who will to run, but it is 
the bull which moves me to run. The first effect produced by the 
sight of the bull is upon my nervous system, which, in its turn, 
acts upon my muscular system, and sets me in motion. If, in 
running from the bull, I met a greater danger, that greater 
danger would move me in a contrary direction, and I should turn 
and face the bull. 

B. 

But what wills or moves the bull to pursue you ? 

A. 

I do not know what the particular thing may be which has 
unduly excited his brain. But, whatever it be, it is some thing 
or other acting as an unnatural stimulus to his brain. And it 
is this which wills or moves him to action. "What is intoxication, 
but temporary madness to all intents and purposes ? And, in 
this species of madness, there can be no doubt, I suppose, as to 
what that thing is which things a man — that is, excites him — to 
his insane actions. In this case the thing which things him is 
alcohol. It is alcohol— which, not being one of the things 
ordained by nature to act as the stimuli necessary to excite him 
to action — to excite him to perform those actions which are 
necessary to the welfare of his being — alcohol, I say, not being 
one of the things between which and ourselves nature has 
established that proper relation which must exist between the 
stimulus and thing stimulated, in order to produce a wholesome 
effect, produces those unwholesome effects — those insane, that is, 
unsound, that is, unnatural actions which we see accompanying 
intoxication. In the case of the bull, some disordered condition 
— something producing an unnatural excitement — of the brain, 
is the thing which things him to pursue me — and this disordered 
condition of the brain, may be, like intoxication, only temporary 
—it may be produced by the hootings of boys, as we sometimes 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 413 

see in the streets of London. And then the shouting of the 
boys is the thing which moves or wills the bull to action — 
which breaks through the order — which destroys the natural 
relation — which nature has established between the thing stimu- 
lated (the bull) and the stimuli destined to excite him to action, 
viz. the things wherewith he is surrounded, and which produce 
their effects upon him through the medium of his senses. 

Animals are destined to preserve their being by the perform- 
ance of certain actions, such as eating, drinking, escaping from 
danger, defending themselves from threatened injury, &c. In 
order that they may be induced to perform these actions, and 
not, by neglecting them, lose their existence, and so leave the ends 
of their creation unfulfilled — nature has established, by means of 
the senses, a certain relation between themselves and the things 
wherewith they are surrounded — thus enabling the things which 
present themselves to their senses to act as stimuli upon them, 
and so to determine their actions. Some things are repulsive 
stimuli — some attractive. The repulsive cause us to protect 
ourselves by avoiding them — the attractive to preserve ourselves 
by seizing them— both being equally necessary to the preser- 
vation of our being. The bull would be a repulsive stimulus, 
and would necessarily excite me to those actions necessary to 
avoid him. Food to a hungry man is an attractive stimulus, 
whose mere sight or mention is capable of producing that well- 
known effect called watering of the mouth. 

As nature, for the purposes of preserving animal life, has 
established a certain relation between the nervous system and 
whatever things are brought into the necessary propinquity with 
it, whereby these things can produce each its natural effect upon 
it, which we call excitement ; so also has she established a cer- 
tain relation between the nervous system and the muscular 
system, whereby the former can produce that effect upon the 
latter which we call motion or contraction. 

Why particular things should so act upon the nervous system 
as to produce particular effects — why repulsive things should 
cause us to perform one set of actions, and attractive things 
another — why or how they should determine our conduct, and 
excite to action in particular directions — we do not know. But 



414 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

yet we do know as much about this as we do about anything else. 
For all we know about the commonest things, such as hearing 
and seeing — that a stone unsupported will fall — that fire will 
burn — that cork will swim — all, I say, that we know about the 
cause of any of these things is, that our senses inform us that such is 
the fact — that nature has ordered it to be so. The whole of our 
knowledge consists of the information of our senses. We cannot 
go a single step — not an inch — not a hairVbreadth beyond 
this — not even in that species of knowledge called mathematical. 

With regard to the word will, our language would be just as 
complete without it, as with it — and without any other equiva- 
lent word. Tor we can always express what we mean when we 
use the noun will, by using a periphrasis with the verb to move. 
Thus, merely by getting rid of the name will, we get rid of the 
thing will, if there were any such thing. For if the thing will 
can, not only not be seen, heard, felt, tasted, or smelled, but not 
even spoken of, (which it cannot be without a name) surely the 
necessary conclusion is that there is no such existence. Instead 
of saying C( man possesses a will," we may say, " man can 
be both moved to action and to refrain from action." I put it 
to all the world whether the latter sentence do not convey the 
same meaning as the former, yet in the latter there is nothing 
about will, nor any one word equivalent to the word will. The 
sentence merely asserts that man can be excited or moved. In 
the former sentence, therefore, in which the word will is used, 
(seeing that both sentences are significant alike) this word will 
can only mean whatever things excite or move men to action — - 
and these may of course consist of almost anything and every- 
thing. We say, with equal propriety, " a man will eat," and 
"an apple will fall," if you cut the stalk by which it hangs. Do 
apples also possess this un discoverable something called will? 
It seems to me there is as much reason to suppose an apple 
possesses will, because we say, "it wills to fall," as that man 
possesses a will, because we say, he " wills to eat !" 

B. 

Certainly not — for when you have cut the stalk of the apple it 
cannot help falling. Whereas we are, at all events accustomed 
to suppose, that whatever a man wills to do, he can also will not 
to do. 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 415 

A. 

I beg your pardon — the apple can help falling when its stalk 
has been cut — just in the same way as a man can help commit- 
ting murder. For if, while you divide the stalk with your right 
hand, you support the apple with your left, the apple will remain 
in statu quo, and will not fall. A hoard of gold, which I know 
to be kept in my master's bed-room, may induce me to commit 
murder. But the fear of punishment, operating at the same 
time, in a counter direction, may induce me to forbear. The 
instrument (in the instance of the apple) held in the right hand, 
is the thing whose tendency is to move the apple to fall ; and 
the left hand is the thing whose tendency is to cause it to 
remain — that is, prevent its falling. And so the gold is the thing 
whose tendency is to move me to commit murder, but the fear 
of punishment is the thing whose tendency is to move me 
to forbear — that is, to prevent me — and thus, both I and the 
apple, by a similar counteraction of causes, remain in statu quo. 

In the case of the apple there are two things concerned — the 
apple itself, which is the patient, and you who are an agent, 
operating upon it. It is the same with ourselves. We are the 
patients, and whatever things are brought within the necessary 
propinquity to our nervous system to enable them to affect it, 
are agents operating upon us, exciting us to action, and regu- 
lating our conduct. 

The hope of reward and fear of punishment — are not these 
the moving causes exciting, willing, leading men to the practise 
of religious observances? Undoubtedly they are — and while 
these are able to produce a more powerful impression on men 
than the causes which move them in a contrary direction, they 
will be obeyed. But when the causes which excite to a contrary 
conduct act upon them with a superior intensity, then these 
latter will be obeyed. 

Will, therefore, is a symbol standing for whatever things move 
men to action. 

Of all the things which excite us to action, perhaps there are 
few more powerful than sounds — not only those sounds called 
words — but sounds of every kind. Observe the effect of the 
slamming of a door, or the postman's sharp, sudden, thump- 



416 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

thump, upon a nervous woman. It will make her almost 
literally jump from her seat, and throw her into a universal 
tremor. The scratching of the nail on brown paper, the sharp- 
ening of a saw, the sudden report of an unseen gun just at your 
elbow, will all make a wonderfully strong impression upon your 
nerves. The effects of music are so extraordinary and univer- 
sally admitted that I need scarcely mention them — and words 
falling from a musical tongue, can move men either to tears or 
madness with a power which is irresistible. And who among the 
wisest can listen unexcited to a well-told ghost story, or a tale of 
horror, although he has no belief in ghosts, and knows there is 
nothing in the tale of horror beyond the words in which it is 
conveyed ? There are other stories, besides those of ghosts, which 
move us powerfully, but which yet consist of nothing but words. 
Words constitute the great engine by which the few govern 
the many. 

Judgment — To judge is to do what the judge or umpire does— ■ 
and judgment is — whatsoever the judge or umpire says 
— his sentence. 
Attention — (some one, any one) doing that which those things 
do which are stretched towards anything else. A man 
who is paying attention, is a man who leans forward, 
stretches himself out, in order to hear more distinctly- 
one who puts himself into the most convenient position 
to enable himself to be thinged, or impressed, in the 
strongest manner. 
Power—which is nothing but the French pouvoir, to be able— 
is not the name of any idea- — for there is no such thing 
as power, and therefore can be no such idea. The very 
use of the word should have been sufficient to prove this. 
For we are equally in the habit of speaking of the power 
to do, and the power not to do— the power of resisting, 
and the power of non-resisting. 
When an ozier twig has been bent, it possesses the power to 
recover its former condition. Here power signifies elasticity 
and elasticity signifies power. The elasticity of a twig is that 
power which enables it to straighten itself. Power, therefore, 
in the case of the twig, signifies that which enables the twig to 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 417 

straighten itself. But I suppose it will not be denied that 
" that which enables elastic bodies to recoil" is simply the con- 
stitution of elastic bodies, and is no more than a law of their 
nature — that is, that which nature has ordered with regard to 
elastic bodies. So, with living beings, power is merely a sym- 
bol standing for that which enables animals to move their limbs 
— and that which enables them to do this is merely a law of 
their nature — and this last phrase amounts to no more than this, 
viz. that in the case of living beings, nature has ordered it to be 
so — and this in its turn, amounts to no more than simply this, 
viz. that we see it is so. For the phrase "law of nature" is 
only the name which we give to whatsoever we see to be invari- 
able. A dog moves his limbs and is silent — a man moves his 
limbs and announces the fact either by saying, " I can move," 
or, ( ' I possess power ;" and the word power is a mere symbol 
standing for whatsoever other words can give expression to 
"the fact that I can move or do move." It puts the enuncia- 
tion of the fact into the form of a name or noun, so that it can 
become the subject of speech. If, however, by power you under- 
stand the cause or reason why I can move, then the word stands 
for " that law of nature which declares that animal beings shall 
possess locomotion," or by whatever other words you choose to 
give expression to " the fact that they are so constituted as that 
they can move." 

In a word, power is a symbol standing for the words, the fact 
that (something anything) can move. 

We can no more have an idea of power, therefore, than of 
motion. We can have ideas of things moving, and of animals 
using their limbs — but not of motion or power — for there are 
no such things. 

If the ordinary manner of expressing such questions as, "what 
is power ?" were only changed a little in form, much, if not the 
whole, of the difficulty and puzzle would cease, because it solely 
arises from not understanding the real import of the question. 
All these questions should be put thus — "to what reality in 
nature does the word power direct my attention V And the 
obvious answer is, not so many other words, but taking the 
inquirer by the hand and leading him whither this reality in 



418 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

nature can reveal itself to his senses. But, in the case of power, 
this cannot be done — for we can neither see, nor hear, nor feel, 
nor taste, nor smell it. When, therefore, we appeal to our 
senses for a revelation of power they give no answer. We can 
see bodies exercising an influence upon other bodies. But this is 
a revelation of the act or fact, and not of power apart from 
these. It is the revelation of something doing something to 
something else — and that is all. If it be admitted for a moment 
that there is such a thing as power, how am I to obtain an 
idea of it ? For I have proved over and over again that our 
senses are the only inlets to ideas, and that when the true idea 
cannot be got directly by the senses, we supply its place by a 
similar idea. But power, at all events, has no similitude ! If 
there be any such existence as power, therefore, it is still wholly 
unintelligible, and is to us as though it were not. We 
cannot discourse, or reason intelligibly, about that of which we 
have no idea ! 

The not being able to get an idea or conception of a thing, 
(and the two words are interchangeably the same) is the only 
reason we have for denying the existence of anything. If you 
assert that there is a monster now standing before me, the only 
reason I can have for denying the assertion is, that I cannot 
cause him to reveal himself to my senses — and, if I call a dozen 
other men, so neither can any of these. I have precisely the 
same reason for denying the existence of power, will, mind, 
&c. The phrase " what is a thing V means, (as I have 
before shown) " after the manner of what other thing does that 
thing reveal itself to our senses V If, on appealing to your 
senses they make no revelation, not only no revelation of the thing 
itself, but also no revelation of anything resembling it — then 
that no-revelation is an answer to the question — and that answer 
is expressed in words by the word nothing. 

What is nothing ? Appeal to your senses. What revelation do 
they make? None. Then that silent no-revelation is the answer 
to the question. That silent revelation of nothing is — nothing. 

Whatever cannot be made to reveal itself to our senses is 
nothing, For to be and to exist signify to affect our senses after 
the manner of something or other-— to be, after the manner of 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 419 

living animals — to exist, after the manner of rocks, stocks, and 
stones. Whatever, therefore, does not affect our senses in any 
manner at all (for us) is not, and exists not — and not to be is 
equivalent to being nothing. 

But this does not prove that there may not be other existences 
(I am obliged to use this word, because we have no words capable 
of expressing things of which we know nothing at all. Existence 
means something, anything, affecting our senses after the man- 
ner of rocks — but I am here speaking of things, which are, in 
fact, no things to us — and therefore cannot affect our senses in any 
manner. But, if I speak at all, I must submit to the trammels 
of language — for I cannot even invent a word to signify an 
existence which does not affect our senses. For an existence 
which does not affect our senses is a contradiction in terms — 
and is equivalent to " something affecting our senses which does 
not affect our senses.") But, as I was saying, this argument 
about nothing, and the revelations of the senses, does not prove 
directly that there are not certain beings in other planets 
endowed with other senses, which are capable of taking cogni- 
zance of things of which our senses can afford us no conception. 
There is the same objection to the use of this word things as 
there is to the word existence — but I cannot help it. It only 
shows that to talk intelligibly about whatever is not recognisable 
by the senses is impossible — that language is wholly incapable 
of affording us the means of doing so — and compels us at every 
step into the most absurd contradictions. 

And herein, as it seems to me, those who have hitherto argued 
on this side, have committed a great mistake, and laid them- 
selves open to a refutation (not indeed substantial) but still 
sufficiently apparent and specious to serve as an argument to 
those who, caring little for the truth, are always glad (when they 
can find nothing to say on their own side) of any argument and 
any opportunity which may serve to weaken the attacks of the 
enemies of their prejudices. All our knowledge is positive — and 
no man can attempt to prove a negative without using arguments 
which can easily be shown to be inconclusive. Whatever is, 
we can know. But here knowledge ceases. We cannot know 
that which is not — and, not knowing it, cannot prove it. Had 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

those who have attempted to prove that there are no such things 
as ghosts, been satisfied to prove that, whether there be or not, 
we can know nothing of them — nothing about the matter. That 
we cannot think of them— nor have any conception of them — 
nay, that we cannot even converse about them — that no language 
can furnish the means even of talking about them — that we 
cannot even invent a name for them without that name involving 
a contradiction in itself — and that to attempt to apply language 
to them is contrary to the very nature of language, and wholly 
out of its scope and power — their arguments would have come 
with the greater force. 

Time — there is no such thing as time, nor can we have any idea 
of it. Time is the French temps, which is the Latin 
tempus. But we are only concerned with English words ; 
and the English word for time is tide. In the older 
English writers the word is of constant occurrence. It 
is still preserved in such words as, Whitson-tide, Easter-tide, &c, 
that is, Whitson-time, Easter-time, &c. To eat three times a-day 
is to eat three tides a-day — to make three tides a-day instead of 
two — to eat as often as the tide would flow, were there three 
tides a-day instead of two. The coming and going of the food 
is compared to the coming and going of the tide, one additional 
tide being added to the ordinary number. A long time is a long 
tide — a tide longer in flowing than usual — a short time a short 
tide. What time is it ? That is, what tide is it ? That is, is 
the day a retiring tide ? That is, declining from noon towards 
evening — or is it a rising tide ? That is advancing from sun- 
rise towards noon ? 

To be-tide — that is, to happen — f I will go whatever betide me 5 
—that is, I will go whatever the tide may bring to prevent me — 
whatever may be tided up — that is, whatever may do what the 
tide does, that is, come or rise up — to prevent me. 

We measure the succession and recurrence of the ideas and 
events of years by the revolutions of the earth round the sun — 
of months by the revolutions of the moon round the earth — 
of weeks by the revolutions of the earth upon her axis — and 
our island ancestors measured the succession of ideas, and of the 
minor events of a single day, by the flux and reflux of the tide. 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 421 

An instant of time — instant is a Latin participle, signifying 
standing upon. " I will not tarry an instant of time" — that is, 
I will not tarry — no, not so long as any given portion of the flow- 
ing waters constituting the tide stands upon any one given spot. 
Ghost — the Anglo-Saxon word for wind, or breath. Our word 
gust — as gust of wind — is the same word without the h. 
We also say, a "breath of wind." What is a ghost, then? 
Put your hand out of the window and you will feel it, if 
the wind is blowing. To give up the ghost is to give up 
the breath that is in one— that is, to cease to breathe. 
Psyche, the Greek word, which we translate by the Anglo- 
Saxon word sawl, now spelled soul, signifies wind or 
breath, from psycho, to blow or breathe. And the Anglo- 
Saxon sawl (now soul) signifies life. The word animus, 
from the Greek anemos, also means wind, or breath. 
Animals, therefore, are things which breathe. 
Life — the Anglo-Saxon word signifying to live is lybb-an. The 
Arabic word lub, its root, signifies the heart — and thus 
lybban signifies to do what those things do which have 
hearts. And thus (as is the fact) to be, and to live have 
the same meaning — since the things which have hearts 
are also the things which have houses — that is, living things. 
Life, therefore, signifies that which is done — the actions which 
are performed — by things which have hearts — eating, drinking, 
moving, absorbing, circulating, secreting, &c. Life is a symbol 
standing for all these actions, and saving us the trouble of 
enumerating them on every occasion when we desire to make 
them the subject of speech. There are things which live and 
move, &c. &c. — but there is no such thing as life. Instead of 
saying, "animals can move, and eat, and absorb, &c. &c." we 
say, " animals have life." Life is the name given to the sum of 
all these actions. 

Honor — I know not the intrinsic meaning of this Latin word. 
But our own equivalent word, that is, the Anglo-Saxon, 
was gethingth, a part of the verb gethingan, to speak well 
of — to praise. Gethingth, therefore, or honor, which we 
have substituted for it, signifies, whatsoever conduct men 
speak well of, or praise ; and is a symbol standing for 



422 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

these or similar words. But some men praise one sort 
of conduct and some another. There is no such thing 
as honor, therefore — but all conduct is honorable which 
is praised by men. Corporal Trim thought it honorable 
to " allow three half-pence a-day to his parents out of 
his pay/ 7 Had his parents been rich, he would have 
thought it equally honorable to receive it from them. 
Virtue — a Latin word standing for whatsoever conduct the 
Latins thought more emphatically to become a man, in 
contradistinction from those which become a woman, 
The Romans thought this to be military bravery. We 
think there are other sorts of conduct which become a 
man even more than military bravery. With us, there- 
fore, the word stands for whatsoever conduct we think 
most becoming either to man or woman. Both honor 
and virtue, therefore, are matters of opinion, contingent 
upon time, place, and circumstance. 
Memory — whatsoever is remembered. But to remember is a 
modern word. The old word was moenan — and who can 
doubt for a moment that mqunan, to remember, and 
mcelan, to speak, are one and the same word ? The 
substitution of one liquid letter for another, I for n, is 
not worth a consideration. For when there was nothing to 
guide the pronunciation but the ear, it would have been more 
strange had it not happened, than that it has happened. To 
remember, or, as we formerly said, and sometimes say still, to be 
remembered of a thing, signifies, therefore, to be spoken to over 
again by that thing. A figurative mode of indicating that effect 
which objects have upon us, which enables us to draw or describe 
them, when we no longer see them. If you want to know what 
that effect is, you must here, as in every other instance, appeal 
to your senses and they will tell you. In using this word tell, 
I use the same figure of speech which our ancestors resorted to 
in this very word moenan ; and also in the phrase methinks — 
that is, me telleth, or something tells me. It seems to me both a 
very beautiful and very apposite figure of speech, when a man 
is remembering a thing, to say that that thing is speaking to him 
again. When he remembers what he has read or heard said, 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 423 

then words are the things which speak to him over again. 

Thus the true senses of the words remembering and thinking, 

and also the true operations which these indicate, form, I think, 

a beautiful and strongly confirmatory illustration of each other. 

But, I have said, that all words, even verbs, are the names of 

things. Of what thing is the verb mcenan the name ? Moen 

(as broad like a in father) is the Anglo-Saxon word for man. 

Mcen-an, therefore, signifies to do what man does, and what 

nothing else but man can do, viz. to speak. 

Mean — as the meaning of a word — and what a man means when 

he speaks. To mean is this same word mcenan, to speak 

or remember. The participle meaning, therefore, signifies 

(something, anything) speaking. The phrase meaning of 

a word signifies (something, anything) speaking to me by 

virtue of the utterance of that word — that is, which the 

utterance of that word causes to speak to me — that is, 

causes me to remember. Whatever thing a word causes 

to speak to me — causes me to remember — is the meaning 

of that word. 

The meaning which is in the man before he puts it into 

words, is the language which things are, speaking to him before 

he speaks himself — that is, the things which he remembers. 

And when a man says, " I mean" so and so, he does but tell 

you, in words, what things, in their own peculiar language, are 

telling him. 

And thus the language of words is, and can only be, a 
translation of the language of things. 

Every other language is a language without signification. 
Know — this is another most important word — the insignificant 
use of which has tended greatly to mystify philosophy ; 
and the significant use of which will conduce much to the 
restoration of light. To know signifies to get — some- 
times with the prefix be, and sometimes without it. 
I will just premise that w T e could do just as well without this 
word knowledge in the language as with it. Because we have 
several others which have the same signification — and these 
others all signify to get. Thus, to per-ceive is a Latin word 
signifying to take through, to acquire through — that is, through 



424 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 



the senses. To con-ceive is a similar word, also signifying to 
acquire, to take— both words being only the Latin word capere, 
to take, to get, with different prefixes. 

To apprehend is also a Latin word, signifying, to seize upon, 
to get. 

To inform signifies, to put into one the forms of things — to 
cause one to acquire the forms of things. And information 
(that is, knowledge) consists of the forms of things which one 
has acquired. 

To learn is a compound Anglo-Saxon word, signifying, to seize 
upon, to acquire, that which is taught— from lar, the past 
participle of lozran, to teach, and signifying, that which is taught, 
and nerian, to seize, or acquire. 

The Latins had also equivalent words which they used as 
substitutes for know — and these, too, signify, to get. Thus 
intelligo, to understand, and colligo, which Pliny uses in the 
sense of to know, are nothing manifestly but the word lego, to 
gather, with different prefixes. We also say, " I gather" — that 
is, ' ' I learn" — from what you say, &c. 

The Anglo-Saxon word was cnawan, to know. But they also, 
as well as ourselves and the Romans, had equivalent words— 
and these equivalents signified to get. Thus gytan and angytan 
signified both to get and to know. 



Anglo-Saxon, 

Cn-awan, to know 

Greek, 

Gn-o-o, ) , 

} } to perceive 
N-oeo, 3 

Gen-nao, to be-get 

Gign-osco, to know 

Latin, 

Gign-o, to be-get 

Gn-osco, to know 

English, 

To kn-ow. 



Now I say that all these words are 
but variations of the one word gen, to 
get. In the Anglo-Saxon, the g being 
changed into c, and, in the English, into 
h. While in one of the Greek words it 

omitted altogether. In one of the 



is 



Latin words also it is sometimes omitted. 
Gnosco being now generally written nosco. 
They are all only so many different ways 
of writing the one Greek word gen-nao, 
to get, or be-get. And these differences 
in the manner of writing and speaking is 
merely owing to different postfixes. 
N-oerni, to perceive — that is, to acquire through — that is, 
through the senses— is another form of the same word. From 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 425 

this comes n-oema, a thought— -that is, (something, anything) 
perceived, taken in, through — the senses. From n-oeo, to 
perceive — that is, to take in through the senses- — comes n-oos, 
the Greek word for mind, and thus signifying, like n-oema, a 
thought, (something, anything) taken in through— the senses ; 
and answering exactly to the sense which I have given to our 
own word mind — that is, (something, anything) remembered. 

The Latin word for mind is mens, contracted from menens, and 
derived from a Greek word mnao, itself contracted from menao, 
signifying to call, to speak to, to admonish. Mens, therefore, 
is a present participle signifying (something, anything) speaking 
to one — that is, remembered. This word, therefore, as well as 
its Greek equivalent, has exactly the same meaning as I have 
asserted belongs to our word mind — since things which are 
remembered, as I have just shown you, and as the true sense of 
the Anglo-Saxon mcenan proves, are figuratively said to be 
speaking to us. 

To know is sometimes used in its original sense — the sense of 
gigno, to get or beget. It is so used in scripture. And the 
vulgar use it in that sense to the present day. To know a man 
carnally is to have offspring by him. 

And what are the Greek gin-omai, to be, and the Latin 
nascor, anciently written gn-ascor, to be born, but passive forms 
of genn-ao, and gn-osco, to get, to beget ? To be, to be born, 
and to be begotten — are they not the same ? Here, too, is 
another instance of the truth of what I said sometime since, that 
any word will do to express what we express by the verb to be, 
so long as it necessarily suggests to the mind the actions of 
living beings. Thus, to do what those things do which have 
offspring, to do what those things do which build houses, to 
do what those things do which have hearts, to do what those 
things do which eat, which is the sense of the Latin esse, to be, 
and the Anglo-Saxon wesan, to be, from which we get our word 
was, are all modes of expression used to distinguish the manner 
in which living animal beings affect our senses from the manner 
in which they are affected by such things as rocks, stocks, and 
stones, and vegetable productions. 

To know, therefore, signifies to get — by means of the senses — - 

2g 



426 ABSTRACT IDEAS, 

to acquire or take in the forms of things, or impressions of 
things. And all human knowledge consists of the revelations of 
the human senses. 

My sense of touch has informed me that fire has burned me. 
But my sense of touch cannot inform me that fire will burn me 
again. Yet i" know that it will do so, and therefore I avoid it. 
But this knowledge — -the knowledge that like causes will produce 
like effects— -I also get from one of my senses — the sense called 
instinct. For I say the popular enumeration of the senses is 
the true one. There are seven. I have already numbered six. 
The seventh is instinct. 

The five senses would be useless without memory. But the 
five senses, with memory to boot, would also be useless, had we 
not a seventh which urged us to avoid whatever we remembered 
to have hurt us. 

All the seven, however, do, de facto, resolve themselves into 
but one, viz. the effects produced by things upon us. But much — > 
very much — of our knowledge consists merely of a knowledge of 
words. Thus if I tell a clown that the three angles of a triangle 
are equal to two right angles, he does not know the fact — he 
only knows the words in which I have stated the fact. For all 
he knows, the statement may be false — and nothing can prove 
it true but an appeal to his own senses. To a man who has 
visited America, the existence of America is a revelation. If he 
return, and clothes the revelation in words, and communicates 
those words to me, then to me the existence of America is only 
a tradition — and the words of the tradition are all I know of 
America. 

Belief — to-believe is nothing but the Anglo-Saxon ge-leaf-an, to 

grant, to allow, to take for granted. Belief, therefore, 

is (something, anything) allowed, granted, taken for 

granted. The difference between knowledge and belief 

is this. Knowledge is that which we get through our 

senses — belief is merely the permission which we give to words 

to stand to us in the place of things. Knowledge is the truth 

itself — that which one thinketh or thingeth — that is, that 

which thingeth one — that is, reveals itself to one's senses. 

Belief is merely faith in words— -the allowing words to influence 



ABSTRACT IDEAS, 427 

our conduct instead of things. If you relate anything to me, 
and I believe you, and, if necessary, regulate my conduct 
accordingly, then it is manifest that I allow your words to stand 
to me in the place of things — I am then thinged by words. The 
relation which you have made may be false — -but, whether it be 
or not, i" take it for granted, or i" grant, that it is true. But 
whether I shall take its truth for granted or not, must depend 
upon its conformity with the past experience of my senses. I 
cannot grant that to be true which is not truth-like. Knowing 
that things are, in all essentials, everywhere the same, and that 
all men are endowed with the same senses, I cannot grant that 
you or any man, has ever been thinged in a manner in which I 
know it to be impossible for myself to be thinged. But if there 
be nothing in your words to contradict the experience of my 
senses, then I rely upon your words — I allow them to stand to 
me in the place of things — in a word, I believe you — and 
regulate my conduct by that belief. He, therefore, who 
regulates his conduct by knowledge, does so in accordance with 
reason— -that is, in accordance with the manner in which he 
himself has been thinged by things — that is, in accordance with 
the experience of his senses. He, also, who regulates his 
conduct by his belief, does so in accordance with reason, or 
reasonably , provided that which he believes, or takes for granted^ 
be in accordance with reason — that is, in accordance with the 
experience of his senses. But he who regulates his conduct by 
his belief when that which he believes is not in accordance with 
the experience of his senses— that is, which is not in accordance 
with his reason — manifestly does so unreasonably. For reason, 
and knowledge, and the experience of the senses, are but so 
many different words signifying the same thing — viz. the 
revelations of things — the effects which things have upon our 
senses. He, therefore, who believes that which is in opposition 
to the experience of his senses, believes that which is in opposi- 
tion to reason, and in opposition to knowledge. But knowledge, 
as I have already shown you, is the truth itself — and the truth 
is knowledge itself He, therefore, who believes that which is in 
opposition to knowledge, believes that which is in opposition to 
the truth. For reason, knowledge, and truth, are only three 

2g2 



428 ABSTRACT IDEAS. 

different words derived from three different languages, Latin, 
Greek, and English, and all signify one thing, viz. that which 
reveals itself to our senses. 

Whatever belief, therefore, is in opposition to the experience 
of our senses, is, if there be any meaning in words at all, also in 
opposition to the truth — or, a false belief. 

If the word truth signify that which is — that which does what 
those things do which exist, or are, or be — that is, which affects 
our senses after the manner of those things which exist, which 
are, which be — then that belief which takes for granted that 
which does not what those things do ivhich exist, fyc, must 
glaringly and undoubtedly be contrary to truth — that is, false. 
Knowledge comes in by all the senses indifferently — belief by 
the ear only. But the ear can give us no knowledge of anything 
but sounds. This consideration alone is sufficient to show the 
value of that belief which is unsupported by the evidence of the 
other senses. Belief is but hear-say, call it by what other name 
you will. But "pluris est oculatus unus testis quam auriti 
decern 1 ' — that is, " the evidence of one eye is of more value 
than the testimony of ten ears." 

B. 

How does it happen that men so readily believe what is 
clearly in opposition to their reason — to the experience of their 
senses — and to the truth ? 

A. 

The cause is manifest enough. Those who believe that 
which is in opposition to the evidence of their senses, and 
regulate their conduct accordingly, do exactly what the child 
does, who, having been frightened by the horrors of a ghost- 
story, refuses to go up-stairs alone in the dark — and for the 
same reason — viz. because both have suffered themselves to be 
influenced by words, which are words merely — without stopping 
to inquire whether what they have heard be in accordance with 
reason or not. 

I have already touched upon the great influence which words 
exercise over us. This is strongly instanced in the case of 
romances. We know that the words of the romance are 
words merely — that they do not point to things — to realities — 



ABSTRACT IDEAS. 429 

that they are all false. And yet we cannot help being excited 
as much as though they were true. The writer of a romance 
does not pretend that his romance is true — but if he did, he 
would find plenty of believers, let his romance be as romantic as 
it might — provided always that the interests, and therefore the 
fears of his readers were intimately concerned in the fact of its 
being true or false. Witness the romance of Johanna Southcote, 
and other impostors, as Mahomet, &c. 

They who suffer their conduct to be influenced by a belief 
which is contrary to reason, do what the romance readers do, 
viz. suffer themselves to be influenced by words which are words 
merely — which do not point to things — which are signs signi- 
fying nothing — as in the case of children and ghost-stories. 
Words which do not represent things, they nevertheless allow to 
stand to them in the place of things. Words which, in fact, 
signify nothing, they nevertheless take it for granted signify 
something. Bills of exchange which do not represent gold, they 
nevertheless take in lieu of gold — and prize them and talk of 
them as though they were gold — forgetting that bills of exchange 
which are not convertible into gold are paper, and nothing else 
but paper. And they and the children do this because they do 
not stop to think — that is, to talk to themselves — that is, to 
inquire whether what they hear or read be or be not in accord- 
ance with reason — whether the bills of exchange which are 
offered them be or be not representations of gold, and convertible 
into gold — or whether they be paper and paper merely. 

But they who have made the inquiry have often failed to 
satisfy themselves, because they did not know the real import of 
such words as truth, reason, be, exist, spirit, mind, and many 
others of a similar nature — and could not therefore arrive at any 
clear ideas on the subject of their silent discussion — and thus 
suffered themselves to be mystified into an indefinable terror of 
they know not what, and an incomprehensible belief — they know 
not wherefore. 



430 



CHAPTEE XI. 

EIGHT. 

Right — This word right is, I believe, the last with which I shall 

trouble you. I have reserved it to the last because it is 

one of the most important— one of those which are most 

frequently in men's mouths, as well as of those which 

are the least understood. I had intended to discuss 

every important word in the language ; and having shown what 

must necessarily be the meaning of each (if it had any meaning 

at all) I then intended to go regularly through some of our best 

philosophical writers, moral, political, and metaphysical, and to 

show the absurd unintelligibility of many of their dogmas, 

merely by reducing their words to an intelligible meaning, 

Thus, doing everything myself, I should have left nothing to be 

done by you. 

I soon found, however, that the task I had marked out for my- 
self was one which it would take years to execute. I have been 
obliged, therefore, to content myself with only a comparatively 
few illustrations of the great principle I would inculcate— and 
am thus compelled to leave something for you to do yourself— 
that is, to carry out the principle of no-abstraction into such 
words as I have omitted, and to apply that principle yourself to 
the dogmas which you hear and read. It was, I say, my inten- 
tion to take you by the hand, and lead you the whole way along 
Home Tooke's straight path, even to the end of the journey. I 
must content myself, however, with having only led you on a 
few yards further, and with having brought you within sight of 
the goal, if you will only use your eyes— and with having given 
you such plain directions as will, if you will only use your senses, 
insure your reaching it. You have only to remember a few 
great principles which are, of themselves, self-evident truths — ■ 
That words can only tell words, and cannot tell 

THE MEANINGS OF WORDS— WHICH ARE THINGS. 



RIGHT. 431 

That all words can possibly do is to refer us to 
our senses. 

That the meanings of words are the language of 
things— that is, the revelations of our senses. 

All those words said to be the signs of abstract ideas 
are merely symbols which stand for other words, and must 
be translated into the words which they stand for before they 
can possibly communicate ideas or knowledge. And that 
those words which the symbol stands for must be again trans- 
lated into things — that is, their meaning must be sought for 
by an appeal to the senses, and can only be acquired by a reve- 
lation of the senses — and that thus you must go on translating 
words into other words, until finally you have translated all 
general terms into particular terms, and thus have enabled 
your senses to translate those particular terms into the things 
which they represent. 

That the meaning of words must necessarily be in 
the mind of the man before he speaks, since the very 
object of his speech is to communicate the meaning 
that is in him — -and it is self-evident that there can 
be nothing in a man^s mind but that which he remem- 
bers the mind itself being a general term for all 

that a man remembers. 

That the object of speech is to communicate knowledge 
— that the knowledge must be in the speaker before he can 
communicate it by words- — and that all knowledge consists 
of that which a man remembers. If it were not so, then 
a man might know that which he has forgotten- — which is 
surely absurd and impossible. Knowledge and mind are equiva- 
lent terms — and are constantly so used by Wiclif in his trans- 
lation of the Bible — he using the word knowledge or wit, where 
modern translators use the word mind. Thus in Romans (viii. 7) 
the modern version uses the phrase " carnal mind," which 
Wiclif translates by " the wisdom of the flesh" — both phrases 
being clearly equivalent with " human knowledge." 

If you will only remember these great principles, and that there 
is no such thing as abstraction, and that all human knowledge 
consists merely of that which has been gathered or gotten by the 
human senses, and must therefore be such as it is possible for 



432 RIGHT. 

the human senses to gather, you can have no difficulty in under- 
standing the nature and true import of all words, and can be in 
no danger of imposition or mystification by the machinery of 
language. Remembering these things, you will possess an 
infallible test by which to guage with the utmost accuracy the 
value of whatever you read or hear, and which will enable you easily 
and at once to detect the meaning or no-meaning, the sense or 
senselessness, of whatever dogmas are propounded to you ; either 
orally, or in books by their authors. It is a philosopher's stone 
which instantly turns all that it touches, unmistakeably, either 
into nonsense or sense. 

You will also remember that every word, in every language, 
was originally the name of some one particular thing, and is still 
the name of some thing or other — the only difference being that 
at first each was the name of one particular thing only, while 
many of them now are the name of a whole class of things- 
all that class of things which have some general resemblance to 
that particular thing of which each was at first the particular 
name. Thus our word unless, or dismiss, was originally the 
name of some one thing which had power to suggest to the mind 
those actions which are used when (some one, any one) dismisses 
(some one or something else). It is no longer the name of that 
one thing, but it is still the name of any and all of the things of 
that class — that is to say, any or all of those things which have 
power to suggest to the mind the actions in question. Thus if 
you use the word dismiss, and ask me its meaning, I tell you 
that it means an officer disbanding his regiment- — supposing that 
to be the thing it suggested to my mind. The word is, there- 
fore, (for the time and occasion) to me, the name of that thing. 
But to another man it might suggest some other thing, but it 
would certainly be something which we are accustomed to see 
perform those actions which we suggest by the word dismissal 
or dismission. 

These words, therefore, although the names of things, cannot 
communicate ideas, although they can excite them— because the 
ideas which they excite in different men will be ideas of different 
things. 

I will just give you a familiar instance of the mode of apply- 



RIGHT. 



433 



ing this test in argument, and then proceed with the word right. 
Suppose the proposition be, " is virtue commendable V } To 
this I reply, at once, that the question is as insignificant and 
idle as though you had asked me whether fiddledidee be 
the father of Amsterdam — or whether x, y, z, be commend- 
able ? What do you mean by virtue ? For you might as well 
require me to argue about the a, b, c, and the d, e, f, of ma- 
thematicians, without showing me the figures represented by 
these letters — you might as well ask me whether a, b, c, be 
equal to d, e, f, and require me to argue the question with you, 
without letting me know what figures or diagrams are repre- 
sented by these letters, whether they be angles, squares, or 
circles — as to expect I can reason with you about virtue, without 
letting me know what the word virtue represents. Translate it 
into the words which it stands for in your mind — show me the 
figures which it represents — that is, define the word virtue 
according to your acceptation of its verbal meaning. 

B. 
By virtue I mean, " whatever actions become a man.^ 

A. 
Very well — you have now translated the symbol into the 
words which it stands for. You must now translate these latter 
into things. That is to say, you must enumerate all those par- 
ticular actions which, according to your notion, become a man — 
because different men have very different notions on this subject. 
The Romans and our Anglo-Saxon ancestors thought nothing so 
much became a man as military valour. You must mention their 
particular names, therefore, and thus cause me to remember 
them, and enable me, as we say, to see them with my mind's eye. I 
shall then know exactly what you mean by the word virtue — ■ 
but not till then. 

But still the question, even then, will not be intelligible. I 
shall want to know what you mean by commendable ? 

B. 
I call that action commendable, whatever it be, which men 
ought to perform. 

A. 
Surely — but that which is ought by any one, is that which he 



434 RIGHT. 

owes. But whatever we owe we must owe to some one. To 
whom is the debt due in this instance ? To whom do men owe 
it to praise this or that particular action ? 

B. 

To themselves — to the respect which they have for themselves, 
and for their own welfare and happiness. 

A. 

Ay ! to be sure. And now the question is perfectly intelli- 
gible, and resolves itself simply enough into this, viz. " are such 
and such particular actions calculated to effect the happiness and 
welfare . of men V 3 A question which an appeal to our senses 
will answer without the slightest difficulty or quibble. I will 
now proceed with right. 

The English word right, with the Italian equivalent ritto, says 
Home Tooke, is nothing but the Latin past participle rect-um, 
and of course signifies the same thing — viz. that which is ordered 
or commanded. While the other Italian words dfijritto, dritto, 
with the old French droigt, and the modern droit, are nothing 
else but the Latin past participle di-rect-um, which is itself only 
the word rectum with a prefix, and signifies the same thing, viz. 
that which is ordered, commanded, or directed. 

Now it is quite true, as H. T. says, that all these words are 
but different ways of spelling the one word rectum or di-rectum, 
and that rectum or di-rectum signifies that which is ordered or 
commanded. But even this word rect-um or di-rectum — this 
Latin past participle — is but another way of writing the Anglo- 
Saxon word riht or ge-riht, which is only the past participle of 
riht-an or ge-riht-an, to order, direct, command, and therefore 
signifies, like all the others, that which is ordered or commanded. 

In the Latin di-rectum, and the Italian di-ritto, afterwards 
contracted into dritto, and droit, the prefix di is substituted for 
the Anglo-Saxon prefix ge. 

Here, then, is another language — the Anglo-Saxon — added to 
Home Tooke's list of proofs. In like manner, says he, our 
word just is but the Latin just-um, which is the past participle 
of the verb juhere, to order, to command, and signifies that 
which is ordered or commanded. Right and just, therefore, 
have both but one signification. And it is remarkable that the 



RIGHT. 435 

Anglo-Saxon word for what we call just was still this same word 
riht or ge-riht. Our word right-eousness is but the Anglo-Saxon 
riht-wisness. While riht-end and riht-ere signified a ruler, a 
commander, a governor. 

They had another word signifying just which also signified 
powerful, viz. dom-ige. Metod domige ! is translated, " ! 
just (or powerful) Creator !" But its true rendering is, " ! 
Creator who dost order and command" — all things ! For 
dom-ige is but dom with a suffix — and dom is but the past 
participle of deman, to judge, to think, to examine, (as one 
examines a witness) to doom, to condemn — in a word, to do 
what the judge does — that is, to pronounce sentence, to command 
one to be punished — all of which are only so many words 
signifying to speak, which is the literal meaning of deman — or 
rather I should say the meaning in nature. This word domige 
(just) also refers therefore to ordering and commanding — speaking 
or uttering a command or order — as the judge does. 

It is remarkable that this word dom, which literally signifies 
that which is spoken, is the Mceso-Gothic word signifying the 
mind. This tallies exactly with what I have already said of 
mind and remembering — for that which is remembered is that 
which is spoken to us — by things. Right, therefore, as well as 
ritto, diritto, dritto, droit, is an old English word signifying that 
which is ordered or commanded — and just is a Latin word signi- 
fying the same thing. 

" A right conduct is, that which is ordered." 

" A right reckoning is, that which is ordered.'' 3 

"A right line is, that which is ordered or directed — (not a 
random extension, but) the shortest between two points." 

" The right road is, that ordered or directed to be pursued (for 
the object you have in view.)" 

" To do right is, to do that which is ordered to be done." 

" To be in the right is, to be in such situation or circumstances 
as are ordered.''' 

11 To have right or law on one's side is, to have in one's favor 
that which is ordered or laid down" 

" A right and just action is, such a one as is ordered and 
commanded^ 



436 RIGHT. 

" A just man is, such as he is commanded to be — qui leges jura 
que servat — who observes and obeys the things laid down and 
commanded. 

" The right hand is, that which custom and those who have 
brought us up have ordered or directed us to use in preference, 
when one hand only is employed: and the left hand is, that 
which is leaved, leav'd, left ; or, which we are taught to leave out 
of use on such an occasion. So that left, you see, is also a past 
participle. 

" Mr. Locke says, " God has a right to do it — we are his 
creatures/'' But it appears to me highly improper to say, God 
has a right ; as it is also to say that God is just. For nothing 
is ordered, directed, or commanded concerning God. The expres- 
sions are inapplicable to the Deity; though they are common, 
and those who use them have the best intentions. They are 
applicable only to men ; to whom alone language belongs, an$ 
of whose sensations only words are the representatives ; to men, 
who are by nature the subjects of orders and commands, and 
whose chief merit is obedience. 

"I have always been most obedient when most taxed with 
disobedience. But my right hand is not the right hand of 
Melinda.* The right I revere is not the right adored by 
sycophants ; the jus vagum, the capricious command of princes 
or ministers. I follow the law of God (what is laid down by 
him for the rule of my conduct) when I follow the laws of 
human nature; which, without any human testimony, we know 
must proceed from God ; and upon these are founded the rights 
of man, or what is ordered for man. * * * * I acknowledge 
the senses he has given us — the experience of those senses — and 
reason (the effect and result of those senses and that experience) 
—to be the assured testimony of God, against which no human 

* " I remember to have read in a voyage of De Gama's to Kalecut, (the 
first made by the Portuguese round Africa) that the people of Melinda are all 
left-handed. 

H. 

With reference to the European custom the author describes them truly. 
But the people of Melinda are as right-handed as the Portuguese ; for they use 
that hand in preference, which is ordered by their custom, and leave out of 
employ the other ; which is therefore their left hand."— Home Tooke. 



RIGHT. 437 

testimony ever can prevail. And I can discover, by the help of 
this etymology (of the word right) a shorter method of deter- 
mining disputes between well-meaning men, concerning questions 
of right ; for, if right and just mean ordered and commanded} 
we must at once refer to the order and command — and to the 
authority which ordered and commanded" — Home Tooke. 

If the laws of man, laid down for the regulation of my 
conduct, be in opposition to the laws of God — that is, the laws 
of human nature — for the laws of nature are, beyond all possi- 
bility of doubt or cavil, the laws of God — to which should 
obedience be rendered ? " I will hold fast," says Home Tooke, 
"by the higher authority. }} 

If those who accustom themselves to speak slightingly of the 
laws of nature — branding them with such epithets as vile, 
beastly, filthy, contemptible, &c. — would remember that the word 
%ature in all such phrases as the laws of nature is only another 
name for God — and that these same vile and filthy laws are, 
beyond the possibility of equivocation, God's own ordinances — 
they would, I think, be less loud in their impudent abuse, and 
less scurril in their application of names to the institutions of 
the Creator — institutions whose wondrous perfections they have 
neither the sense to perceive, nor the understanding to admire. 
But, like educated parrots, they know not what they say. 

Law, therefore, (that which is laid down, either in writing or 
otherwise) and right (that which is ordered) are two words of 
precisely the same import. The right, therefore, is the law. 
Human rights are human laws, or the laws of man. Natural 
light is the natural law or the law of nature — that is, the law of 
God. There is no such thing, therefore, as that which is called 
abstract, universal, right. There is no such thing, either as 
Dr. Samuel Johnson's sacred, indefeasible, inherent, hereditary, 
rights of kings ; or Mr. Thomas Paine's inherent, inalienable, 
rights of man. These words are words merely. For if I ask 
either of them for their meaning — apart from all words — 
they can, neither of them, show it me. I say the word right 
(setting aside the presumptive evidence derived from its etymo- 
logy) must either have this meaning, or no intelligible meaning at 
all. Reason requires it — and the very purpose of speech demands 



438 RIGHT. 

it — for, if it have not this meaning, it loses its power of 
communicating knowledge, and is no longer a word — having 
no longer the power to serve the purpose of a word. Suppose 
you deny that this is its meaning. Very well— then I require 
to know what is its meaning— I require you to put its meaning 
into me ! How can you do this ? You cannot do it ! Words 
will not do it. You may translate the word right into a dozen 
different languages, or into two dozen different equivalent words 
in your own language. You may pile definition upon definition, 
and metaphor upon metaphor, and illustration upon illustration. 
But words are not what I want — nor definitions of words — nor 
metaphors — nor illustrations. But I want the meaning of the 
word — the meaning alone — apart from all words — that is, 
the thing signified apart from the sign. I desire you to dismiss 
the sign, and to show me the thing. If there be no thing of 
which your word right is the sign — then it is clear enough that 
your word is the sign of nothing ! Neither will it serve your 
purpose to tell me that Mr. So-and-so uses the word in this 
sense, and Mr. Such-a-one uses it in such another sense. For 
since different writers attach to it different meanings, it is 
evident that the meaning which each attaches to it is but the 
meaning according to that particular writer's opinion. But I 
am not inquiring after an opinion ! — but after a matter of fact- 
independent of all opinion ! One man says it is right to pass 
such a law. Another man says it is not right. What does the 
word right here signify ? Is it not manifest that it means 
opinion, and nothing else ? All that the one man means is, that 
it is his opinion that the law should be past — the other, that it is 
his opinion that it should not. For — except opinion— either his 
own, or other men's— what authority has he to show that it 
should be past ? But we are here concerned with moral 
mathematics which flout at all opinion, and will be satisfied 
with nothing but a demonstration of truth. It is no wonder that 
there is no end to the arguments between rival factions about 
the rights of men, as the phrase goes. For, using the word 
right merely to denote their own opinion, and each party having 
no standard — no unquestionable proof — no indisputable authority 
— to offer in favor of its own — no demonstration — the necessary 



RIGHT. 439 

consequence is that neither can convict the other of error — and 
each maintains its own opinion, and rails at and abuses the other 
for doing the same thing. If you ask these men the meaning of 
any one of those abstract nouns (as they are called) such as the 
word right, or mind, or idea, all you will get will be a quantity 
of other words. Ask a follower of Home Tooke the same 
question, and how different will be the answer ! Instead of 
words, he will give you demonstration. He will cause you to 
see its meaning ! or to hear it, or feel it, or taste it, or smell it, 
with your own proper bodily senses. Surely if men will reject 
a system like this — so simple — so intelligible — so mathematically 
unequivocal — it can only be because they prefer the darkness 
rather than the light — mysticism rather than the truth ! 

You cannot state any one moral proposition involving this 
word right (used as it ordinarily is) which could not be, and 
w*hich would not be, disputed — which dispute would necessarily 
be interminable, because incapable of a final and unquestionable 
decision. Now mark the difference. Let the word be employed 
in its legitimate sense, and then I say, there is no such propo- 
sition which can be stated, about which any dispute can be 
raised, which cannot be set at rest at once. For if you assert 
that you have a right to do so and so — that is, that you are 
ordered to do so and so — and if I dispute it — all you have to do 
is to show me the order — either human or natural — and there is 
an end of the dispute. You merely asserted that you had an 
order, and no more— and you prove the truth of your assertion 
by occular demonstration, i. e. by showing me the order — written 
or otherwise. 

B. 

But suppose you have a human order to do that which is in 
opposition to a divine order — that is, a law of nature ? 

A. 

Then I shall obey the law of nature. For instance, I, being a 
servant, have a right to obey the orders of my master — that is, 
am ordered to do so by the laws of the country, and the agree- 
ment which I have made. But if he order me to put my hand 
in the fire, shall I obey him ? No. Why not ? Because this 
human order or law would be in opposition to a natural order or 



440 RIGHT. 

law — viz. that which is laid down by nature for my happiness 
and welfare — the law of self-preservation or self-love. But the 
question is not, " what is right V for this is merely asking, 
" what is ordered V 3 without reference either to natural or 
human orders, one more than the other. But the important 
question is, iC what are those particular orders which I — ought 
- — to obey ? And then comes the question, " to whom or to 
what do I — owe it— to obey this or that law, in preference to 
others. 



MORAL MATHEMATICS, OR HITMAN DUTIES. 

From what I have said it is plainly apparent that the words 
"natural right," or "Law of nature," (if they mean anything at 
all) signify (something, anything) laid down or ordered by God. 

Before I proceed with my moral mathematics I think it proper 
to give you my reasons why I shall make no reference to the 
sacred writings. They are two-fold— first, because it is unneces- 
sary — and secondly, because any arguments drawn from that 
source would defeat their own object, and therefore be absurd. 

First, it is unnecessary. Because, if what I inculcate be false, 
then it can in every instance be shown to be so 3 without reference 
to scripture. And if what I say be true, then it will be acknow- 
ledged on all hands that scripture itself cannot make it false. 

Secondly, arguments drawn from that source would defeat 
their own object, and therefore be ridiculous. For, he who 
writes to inculcate the truth does not address himself to any one 
particular handful of men, but to the whole of the eight hundred 
millions who inhabit the surface of the earth. For the truth is 
universal — not particular — nor peculiar to any age or climate, or 
people. He addresses himself to men of every color, every 
language, every climate, and every creed; and his arguments 
must therefore be drawn from sources which all men acknowledge 
to be indisputable. For if the truth be desirable to any, it is 
desirable to alL 

This work, for aught that I can tell, may be translated into 
the Chinese tongue, or the language of the Hindu Brahmins. 



RIGHT. 441 

But with the Chinese and Hindu Brahmins, any arguments 
drawn from the particular scriptures of the christians would not 
only have no weight in favour of the truths I seek to inculcate, 
but would absolutely be held by them to be so many arguments 
against me — since they are taught to believe by their sacred 
writings that our sacred writings are altogether false. 

All arguments, therefore, not only for, but against, any of my 
positions must be such as men of all creeds will acknowledge to 
be sound. Otherwise the work becomes a dead letter not only 
to many, but to an immense majority of the earth's inhabitants. 
And the term " mathematics" applied to any part of it would be 
an absurd misnomer. What would be thought of a Turkish 
author who should attempt to erect a science upon the authority 
of the Koran ? 

It appears to me that this argument in favour of no allusion 
to scripture in matters of philosophic argument is perfectly 
unanswerable. For instance, I am ostensibly arguing with you, 
Mr. B. But as no one knows who you are, you may chance to 
be the Turkish ambassador, or a Jew, or a disciple of Confucius ; 
at all events, nothing can be more probable than that you may 
be a disbeliever in the christian scriptures. In either case it is 
quite manifest, that any attempt to instruct you by arguments 
drawn from an authority which you do not acknowledge, must 
be ineffectual. 

Arguments drawn from the christian scriptures can have no 
weight with any but christians. 

B. 

How are we to know a law of nature when we see it ? 

A. 

By observing (as far as human observation can go) its univei- 
sality. We have no other proof whatever, even in the case of 
those which are universally admitted to be laws of nature, 
excepting only this, that human observation, as far as it 
can go, has observed the fact to be universally so. For Newton's 
law, viz. that every particle of matter attracts every other 
particle, &c. &c. is not a proven law, but a presumed law- 
amounting to strong probability and no more — since it cannot 
even be sought to prove it excepting only by presumptive evidence. 

2h 



442 RIGHT. 

It is a law of nature that stones shall fall to the ground. 
Why ? Because the fact demonstrates itself universally to the 
human senses. If stones fell to the ground to-day and rose up 
into the air to-morrow— -or if they fell in England, but rose 
through the air in Turkey — then we should at once deny that it 
is a law of nature that stones shall fall to the ground. The laws 
of nature are nothing more than observed phenomena — observed 
to be universal, both as to time and place, as far as human 
observation can go. Whatever natural phenomena, therefore, 
are observed to be universal, we call laws of nature — which is only 
a shorter way of asserting that it is ordered or laid down by God 
that it shall be so, and not otherwise. Sometimes these observed 
phenomena are called self-evident truths — as for instance, the 
fact, that the whole is greater than any one of its parts. They 
are all only so many truths or facts— that is, so many is-so's, or 
or be-so's, or shall-be-sq's — so many ita-fiats — which reveal 
themselves to our senses. 

It is a law of nature that the spaces travelled through by 
falling bodies shall increase as the squares of the times increase 
— that the extrication of heat shall be followed by diminution of 
bulk, with the single exception of freezing water. But why are 
these called laws of nature ? There is no other reason whatever, 
excepting that human experience proves the fact to be universally 
so, and not otherwise. 

Now it is upon such as these observed phenomena that all human 
reasonings are built. And why not the reasonings concerning 
moral and political government? For there are certain observed 
natural phenomena which relate directly to the conduct of men, 
which are as universal and invariable as any phenomena in the 
universe. If the science of human government (both moral and 
political — but why use both these words ? they signify the same 
thing — morals, the manners of men — politics the manners of 
men living in cities) be not founded on these observed phenomena 
— these laws of God — then they can only be founded on human 
opinion. But what ! shall we reject human opinion as wholly 
insufficient to form the foundation of any other science, however 
trivial, and yet admit * it as the basis — the be-all and end-all-— 
the alpha and omega — in all our reasonings concerning the 



RIGHT. 443 

science of human happiness? We should laugh almost in a 
man's face, who should offer us a theory, though it did but con- 
cern the shoeing of horses, or the boiling of potatoes, could he 
offer us, in support of it, nothing but opinion. Yet British 
senators sit and listen hour after hour, and year after year, to 
sesquipedalian arguments on the question of human government 
with a view to human happiness, which arguments it is not even 
attempted to place upon any more solid foundation than the 
opinions of the orator and his party ! Were the question, how 
to discover a new power for the propulsion of rail-road carriages, 
such arguments would be absolutely ridiculed ! The proposer of 
a new power would be expected to detail clearly all the natural 
laws peculiar to that new power, and to show how these natural 
laws operated so as, of necessity, to produce the desired results. 
But if he could give nothing but opinion in reply to this expec- 
tation, his auditors would either go quietly to sleep, or very 
properly cough him down for wasting the time of the House. 

The law of self-love is as incontestably a law of nature — that 
is, a law laid down by the great Contriver and Creator of the 
universe for the regulation of maris conduct — as the law of 
gravitation or of definite proportions. 

The great ultimate law — the final cause of all — is the preser- 
vation of the universal whole — in all its grand essential 
characteristics — such as it is. If the universality, both as to 
time and place, of an observed fact, can constitute a law of 
nature, then this is surely one. Up to the present moment, 
astronomers have been unable to discover by their planetary 
observations, any principle of change — or any token either of a 
beginning or an ending, with regard to the planetary system. 
On the contrary, the most accurate mathematical reasoning 
proves that this system not only will, but must continue as it is 
through indefinite ages. " So that the system," says Herschel 
in his beautiful discourse on the study of Natural Philosophy, 
" can never be destroyed or subverted by the mutual action of 
its parts, but keeps constantly oscillating, as it were, round a 
certain mean state, from which it can never deviate to any 
ruinous extent." 

In order to accomplish this great ultimate law — viz. the self- 

2 h 2 



444 RIGHT. 

preservation of the whole — the parts, (i.e. the minor systems) 
whereof the whole is composed, are put in subjection to certain 
individual laws for the self-preservation of each individual part, 
or system, that so, by insuring the self-preservation of each 
individual system, the self-preservation of the whole aggregate 
of systems may be insured. 

Thus all the lesser laws, for the determination of man's con- 
duct, have plainly, for their ultimate object, the fulfilment of the 
great ultimate law, or final cause — the preservation of the whole. 
The great law of self-love is necessary to the preservation of the 
individual. The preservation of the individual is necessary to 
the preservation of the species — and the preservation of the 
species to the preservation of the whole — -whereof both indi- 
viduals and species are integrant parts. For all the forms of 
matter, both organic and inorganic, which make up the sum of 
this earth, as well as the earth itself, are manifestly but so many 
integrant parts of the whole universe. 

We eat, drink, &c, that we may live— we live that the species 
may be perpetuated — and species are perpetuated that the uni- 
verse may be preserved, in all its essential parts, entire — that so 
the purpose of the great Designer of the definite whole may be 
accomplished. 

The fundamental law, therefore, with regard to animals 
(whether brute or human) is self-love. It is the basis of all the 
other laws concerning them — which, being fulfilled, the rest are 
necessarily accomplished — and which, being broken, to a greater 
or less extent, all the others, to a greater or less extent, are 
broken also. And he who offends against the law of self-love, 
offends also against all the others, and against the purposes both 
of his creation and his Creator. 

The law of self-preservation is not peculiar to animals. It 
pervades the whole system of the universe. What is the law 
which holds the earth in her orbit — the law of gravitation, as it 
is called— but this same law of self-preservation ? — this same 
conservative law, which being suspended for a moment, or 
annulled entirely, the destruction of the earth, as a separate 
system, must inevitably follow ? Here the law of self-preserva- 
tion is the fundamental law on which the earth's existence 



RIGHT. 445 

depends. With the animal system, self-love is the fundamental 
law — the law on which the existence of the animal system 
depends — and which being annulled, the animal system must 
inevitably perish. 

The occasional changes which have taken place on the earth's 
surface, whereof one is recorded, and which may, and most 
probably will, occur again, with that consequent extinction of 
certain species of animals and vegetables — can only be regarded 
as slight periodical deviations from the general law, precisely 
analogous to the "oscillations" or perturbations, observable 
among the planetary motions, while the " mean state" (in both) 
is " absolutely invariable." 

How senseless, therefore, is the clamor of those who rail at 
this same self-love or selfishness, as something detestable — and 
laud to the skies a fancied disinterestedness which has no exist- 
ence, and which, if it did exist universally, as they would have it, 
could have no other result than the utter destruction of the human 
species. They rail, with open throats, at him who fulfils the 
laws of his Creator, and praise only him who seems to them to 
set his laws at defiance. But were they capable of reflection, 
they would know that the very praise which they lavish on this 
so-called disinterestedness, has its origin in self-love alone. For 
why do I love him who has sacrificed his own interests to mine ? 
Is it not clearly because I prefer my own to his ? Because the 
sacrifice of his self-love is the gratification of mine? But we are 
pleased with the semblance of disinterestedness even when our 
own interests are not immediately concerned. Why ? Because 
(believing in its possibility) we like the principle — and for the 
same reason that poor citizens admire the principle of erecting 
alms-houses, since the time may come when themselves may be 
glad to profit by them. There is no such thing as disinterested- 
ness. The man who gives a penny to a beggar does so, either 
from pride and self-consequence, or to relieve himself from a 
painful feeling. The beggars themselves are quite conscious of 
this latter cause of charity, and therefore take care to make that 
feeling as painful as possible, by exhibiting their sores and their 
unshod feet, and by surrounding themselves with as many 
miseries as they can. 



446 RIGHT. 

B. 

According to you, then, it is right that men should be selfish. 

A. 

Not according to me, but according to the law of the great 
lawgiver of the universe. It is by him so ordered, and you have 
only to look abroad to see the order in the course of constant and 
universal fulfilment. Obedience to this law is a human duty. 
For a duty is that which one owes — and obedience to the law of 
self-love is that which we owe to our Creator as well as to ourselves. 
To obey the law of self-love is to contribute our share towards the 
accomplishment of his purposes. We owe it also to necessity, 
to obey this law — for it may well be doubted whether we can 
help it. And in spite of the variety of terms and phraseology 
with which the foolish out-cry raised against it induces us to 
cloak and disguise it, obedience to this law will be discovered 
to be the mainspring of all our actions by any and every 
unjaundieed eye. The very perfection of the law — its simplicity 
- — its perfect efficiency — stamps it at once as divine. It provides 
for the well-being of all, by insuring the well-being of each. 
How different from the complexity and inefficiency of any 
human law ! 

Parental affection is another natural law, also necessary to 
the preservation of the entire whole. For if parents (whether 
brute or human) were not compelled by this law to feed and 
protect their offspring, the offspring would perish. And so the 
animal system become extinct. The two laws, therefore, are 
equally necessary, and equally subserve the same purpose. 

Filial affection is not a distinct natural law. It is but one of the 
countless modes in which self-love manifests itself. The offspring 
loves its parent because the parent administers, or has adminis- 
tered, to its wants. In loving the parent, it does but love the sup- 
port and self-gratification proceeding from the parent. In fearing 
to lose the parent, it does but fear to lose the parenfs support. 
There is no such law as filial affection, because there is no necessity 
for it, because it could in no way conduce towards the accomplish- 
ment of the great ultimate law. There are no laws acting in a 
retrograde direction. Beginning to exert their influence with 
the beginning of life, they have all an onward tendency towards 



RIGHT. 447 

the accomplishment of the ultimate law. When the parent has 
reared his offspring he has accomplished the final cause of his 
earthly existence, and soon dies. While the child proceeds 
onward to run the same race, to fulfil the same final cause, and, 
having done so, dies too. And by this simple contrivance, 
although individuals are constantly disappearing, the several 
species still endure, and the animal system still continues to 
make an integrant part of the universe for ever — and thus the 
law for insuring the unchanging integrity of the universal whole 
is fulfilled. This end would be equally well accomplished 
whether the offspring love the parent or not — consequently there 
is no especial law provided to compel him to do so. But, if the 
parent did not love the offspring, and feed and support it, then 
this end could not be accomplished. In this case, therefore, 
nature has provided a special law to compel the parent to do so 
— the law of parental affection. 

The various ties which bind men together in small commu- 
nities — the reciprocation of services — are all merely so many 
manifestations of self-love. For "self-love and social are 
(undoubtedly) the same." 

Since the law of self-love, therefore, is the fundamental law 
upon which the fulfilment of all the other natural animal laws 
depends — it follows that to obey this law is to obey all the 
others — and is, in fact, to do all that in us lies towards the 
accomplishment of the Creator's great design — the preservation 
of the whole. 

And thus all questions of individual obedience resolve them- 
selves into questions of individual happiness. And all questions 
as to whether an individual ought or ought not to perform this 
or that action, resolve themselves into the question whether that 
individual owe it, or do not owe it (which is the meaning of 
the word ought) to his happiness to do so. And thus all 
questions of human individual duties resolve themselves into 
questions of what each individual owes or does not owe to his 
own individual happiness or self-love. And, indeed, even 
religious duties (although I am here not at all concerned with 
such) necessarily resolve themselves into the same question. 
For why ought men — that is, to what do men owe it — to be 



448 KIGHT. 

religious? Beyond the possibility of contradiction, to their 
self-love — to their desire of eternal happiness and dread of 
eternal punishment. If they had no hope of happiness, and no 
fear of punishment, would they be religious ? or suffer, as they 
have done, and continually do, for religion's sake? Yet this law 
— which is the cause and foundation of all religion, even religious 
men are accustomed to revile with every opprobrious epithet. 

It is a law without which the animal system, which the 
Creator has determined shall form an integrant part of the 
universe, could not exist. It is a law so imperatively stringent 
that disobedience to it — if disobedience be possible — for, in the 
case of self-destruction, it may well be doubted whether the 
suicide do not consult this law by that very act — is thought to 
be sufficient evidence of insanity. It is a law, any neglect or 
attempted infringement of which, invariably carries with it its 
own punishment. Yet, while all men obey it, all men revile 
it. But, as I have observed before, this very reviling is 
itself but one of the ten thousand manifestations of the 
same law. 

B. 

But though self-love be productive of much good, and is 
undoubtedly, to a certain extent, necessary, yet when carried to 
excess, is it not the parent of much evil ? 

A. 

To a certain extent ! And pray who is to judge of the proper^ 
extent ? Are the operations of the laws of nature to be regulated 
and modified at the caprice of human opinion? This is to 
repeat the ancient farce of Canute, who, as he stood upon the 
sands, said to the sea, "thus far shalt thou come, and no 
farther." But did the sea hear him ? Or, if it heard him, did 
it mind him ? If the extent of the operation of this law were 
left to be regulated by human opinion, the result would be the 
same as though the quantity and frequency of the rain were left 
to be regulated by the opinions of men. Scarcely two would be 
found to agree as to the when and the where and the proper 
amount. And it is because men have weakly imagined that the 
operation of this law is to be regulated by them, that so much 
quarrelling, and confusion, and mischief have ensued. 



RIGHT. 449 

I read the law of self-love, written in unmistakeable characters 
in the book of nature. But, attached to it, I can discover no 
conditions of any kind. And the evils you speak of do not 
result from this law — but from the collision of this law with the 
conventional laws and opinions of men — and the vain opposition 
with which these latter attempt to withstand its operation. 
They are the hybrid result of an unnatural encounter. 

B. 

Do you mean to say, then, that it is a duty which every man 
owes to himself to seek his own happiness even at the expense 
of another ? 

A. 

Your question, and the air of surprise with which you put it, are 
both natural enough. They only show, however, that you have 
not paid much attention to the manner in which the individual 
law in question operates upon the whole. To your question I 
answer, yes. But although every man owes it to himself to seek 
his own happiness, even at the expense of another, yet that other 
is equally impelled by his own self-love to resist him. And 
thus, from two opposing forces, the mean direction required 
is obtained — as the mean direction of the earth round the sun 
is the result of the two opposing forces, called the centripetal 
and projectile. 

This kind of counterbalance is observable everywhere. There 
is in nature a compensating principle — a self-adjusting power — 
which pervades all her works — and which enables her, in the 
midst of antagonizing causes, constantly to preserve her status 
quo. The distance of the planets from the sun is constantly 
increasing and decreasing. But, notwithstanding these oscilla- 
tions, Laplace and Lagrange have demonstrated that the mean 
distance of each is absolutely invariable. These oscillations and 
perturbations are incessant throughout all her works — but 
the same mean condition is invariably restored — and the great 
end obtained. We may oppose and disturb the direction of her 
laws — we may turn her aside from the direct path for a time — 
but she will surely arrive at her journey's end, in spite of all we 
can do — and we shall as surely gain nothing but suffering as the 
fruits of so foolish a contest. 



450 RIGHT. 

B. 

But if every one is to seek his own happiness, even at the 
expense of others, it seems to me that the weak must necessarily 
and invariably become the slaves of the strong, or else that life 
must be consumed by the perpetual struggle between aggression 
and resistance. Is this right or just ? 

A. 

And such is the fact. The weak are, always and everywhere, 
the slaves of the strong. And it is right that it should be so — ■ 
for it is so ordered. And it is just, for it is so commanded. And 
I know that it is so ordered and so commanded for precisely the 
same reason that I know it is ordered and commanded that stones 
shall fall to the ground, viz. because human observation perceives 
that everywhere such is the fact. I gather or get that piece of 
knowledge as I gather or get every other knowledge — that is, 
through my senses. And it is a law of nature, for it is so laid 
down — by nature everywhere. And the weak owe it to their 
self-love — that is, they ought to obey this law. Why ? First, 
because any attempt to disobey it is instantly punished — by the 
strong. Secondly, because, resist it as they may, they must 
eventually yield, and nothing is gained, but suffering or destruc- 
tion, by resistance. The very end and immediate object of self- 
love is self-preservation. But all punishment has a tendency to 
destroy the sufferer. He, therefore, who, in defence of his 
self-love subjects himself to destruction, defeats the very object 
of that law in defence of which he suffers. Thus my self-love 
would induce me to resist the amputation of a limb. But if, by 
resisting amputation, I know that I must lose my life, then the 
same law which at one time induces me to resist, at another, 
induces me to yield. So self-love would induce the weak to 
resist the strong — but knowing they would suffer more by 
resisting then by yielding, the same self-love induces them to 
yield. And thus, under all circumstances, the law of self-love 
conduces to the law of self-preservation. 

I have said that the weak are everywhere the slaves of the 
strong. And- — 

B. 

You, of course, are now alluding to a state of nature. In 



RIGHT. 451 

civilized communities, in England for instance, this cannot be 
true. 

A. 

Nonsense — it is true everywhere — otherwise it could not be a 
law of nature. Might constitutes the right in England, as well 
as anywhere else. For what are our laws, and all human laws, 
and indeed all natural laws, but the exercise of superior strength? 
for the purpose of compelling the object of those laws (no mat- 
ter, whether animate or inanimate — for the rule is universal) to 
a particular line of conduct. And with regard to all human 
laws, this line of conduct is chalked out by the strong many, 
without any other rule than their own pleasure. And they say 
to the weak few : " thus and thus shall you do, and not other- 
wise. You shall no longer live according to the dictates of your 
own self-love, but according to the dictates of ours. It pleases 
us to live a life of ease and physical comfort. And if you, in 
pursuit of your happiness of a different kind, disturb us with 
your brawls, or noisy and turbulent rejoicings, we will punish 
you." Why ? They can give but one answer — " because we 
are the stronger." If the turbulent formed the numerous and 
stronger party, then the laws would be laid down by them, and 
the self-love of the weak and peaceable few would be sacrificed 
to the self-love of the strong and turbulent many. 

It must be remembered that the law of self-love is not one 
unique whole. Every man has a separate law more or less 
peculiar to himself, which peculiarity constitutes individual 
characters and tastes. As the organization of the human coun- 
tenance is almost infinitely varied, so also is his internal organi- 
zation — and consequently human characters and human tastes 
are also infinitely various — and so, therefore, must be the means 
by which they seek to gratify these tastes. No man, therefore, 
is competent to prescribe the means of happiness to another, 
because he cannot know wherein the happiness of that other con- 
sists. He can only know wherein his own consist. And it is as 
absurd for the peaceable many to tell the turbulent few, or for 
the civilized to say to the barbarian : ' ( you would be much 
happier, if you would lead the life which we lead," as it 
would be for a man to tell another that his (the other's) wife 



452 RIGHT. 

would be much handsomer if she were dark instead of fair. 
In both instances we make our own tastes the guage and 
standard by which we arbitrarily seek to measure the tastes 
of others. 

Our own laws, and the laws of all civilized states, are nothing 
but an agreement entered into by the strong and peaceable 
many, to hold in subjection the weak and disorderly few — weak, 
because they are few ? I say the weak are everywhere subject 
to the strong, and ruled and coerced by them. And why do you 
start with surprise when I say "it is right" that it should be 
so" ? I will tell you. It is because you suffer yourself to be 
influenced by words, without attending to their real import — 
like a child by a ghost story. For I have only to dress the 
same proposition in other words, and you will immediately assent 
to it, as to a proposition which is undeniable. For is it not 
right that the interests of the few should yield to those of the 
many ? The two propositions are identical, for the many and 
the strong are one and the same — and the few and the weak are 
one and the same. They are but different terms applied to the 
same thing. 

B. 

Yes — but the interests of the few are not sacrificed because 
they are too weak to defend them — but simply because they are 
few. 

A. 

Indeed ! well — what reason have you for this assertion? What 
cause or shadow of a cause is there why it should be so ? Why 
should the few, each individual of whom is influenced by a self- 
love as strong as that which influences each individual of the 
many — why, I say, should the few sacrifice their self-love to the 
self-love of the others ? You have not the shadow of an intelli- 
gible reason to offer. You would attribute it to a sense of 
abstract justice — to some unknown and un discoverable some- 
thing — some shadowy principle — which no one can define, and 
about which no two men can agree — and which can nowhere be 
found in operation in any of the dominions of nature. Where 
is this abstract justice ? What is it ? What do the words 
mean ?— -what is it apart from all words .?■— exhibit it to my 



RIGHT. 453 

senses — -enable me to know it, or gather it, or become acquainted 
with it, in some way or other, I care not how — so that you do 
but put into me the meaning which the words mean, apart from 
the words themselves. 

The doctrine of innate principles, you know, has been given 
up on all hands ever since Locke exposed its absurdity. I have 
shown you the utter impossibility of obtaining any ideas from 
reflection. So that unless you can make me either see, or feel, 
or taste, or smell, or hear this same abstract justice, I am wholly 
at a loss to guess how I am to make myself acquainted with it. 

The moment you mention the words " abstract justice" you 
instantly become involved in a maze of metaphysical mysticism. 
But the moment you consent to interpret language according to 
the realities of nature, and consent to believe, with Home Tooke, 
that the language of men is but the translation of the language 
of things — a consequence necessarily flowing from Home Tooke's 
system of language — of which Lord Brougham has declared that 
it is so " eminently natural and reasonable" that " all men are 
convinced of its truth" — the moment, in fact, that you substitute 
reason in the place of fanciful prejudices, all mysticism ceases, 
and everything becomes plain and intelligible as that two and 
two make four. 

Now — now that I will suppose you have consented to become 
the disciple of common sense, if any ask you, why the interests 
of the few should be sacrificed to those of the many, tell them it 
is because the few cannot help themselves — but are coerced by 
the many, in obedience to that universal law which has laid it 
down, that the weak shall be held in subjection by the strong. 

If there were but two men — a strong and a weak one — in 
their war against the rest of creation, for food and self-pro- 
tection, they would unite, because their interests would be the 
same. But should any difference of opinion and consequent 
dispute arise between them concerning their individual interests, 
then the weaker must necessarily yield to the stronger. The 
sincere conviction of a man, however false, yet stands to him in 
the light of truth. And for the strong man to yield up what he 
believed, to be truly his right, to what he must therefore believe 
to be the false claim of the weak man, would be for truth and 



454 RIGHT. 

strength voluntarily to give way before weakness and falsehood. 
Thus the weak man would lie constantly at the mercy of the 
strong man's opinion. They could not even take your abstract 
justice for an umpire between them. Because even the question: 
" what is the abstract justice of any one particular case/' must 
always be answered according to the opinion of the strong man 
— which he, believing it to be the true one, would defend. 

Now here is no numerical difference — and you cannot say that 
the interests of the few must yield to the interests of the many — 
because they are many. Neither can you decide their disputes 
by a reference to abstract justice. Yet here you observe the 
same thing happening which happens everywhere else between 
the many and the few — viz. that the weak are subject to the 
strong — and this case proves that the reason of this is, not 
because the many are many, but solely because they are the 
stronger. These two supposed individuals represent every com- 
munity — the weak man represents the few, and the strong one 
the many— and they are both governed by the same natural laws. 

If the few resigned their own interests to those of the many, 
upon any other principle than that of compulsion, we should see 
this principle in operation. But do we see it ? Do we see the 
few voluntarily resigning their rights and interests to those of 
the many ? — excepting where resistance is clearly useless, and 
where, therefore, it is more to their interest to yield than to resist? 
You say, upon my principle of might, the lives of the weak 
would be frittered away in the struggles of resistance. And is 
not this the case ? I refer you to our daily police reports for an 
answer. There is in ours, and every other civilized community, 
a few who find more pleasure in living a life of disorder, than in 
leading one which is in accordance with the laws and usages of 
society. And how are their lives — the lives of these weak few 
— -passed ? Is it not in a perpetual struggle with the superior 
force of the laws and usages of the many ? Why should not 
these few live in accordance with the dictates of then own self- 
love, as well as the many? The self-love of the few is as strong 
in the few, as it is in the many ! You can give me no reasons 
why they should not — excepting such only as consist merely of 
opinion. But you know, we are here concerned with moral 



RIGHT. 455 

mathematics — and mathematics is a science into which mere 
opinion can by no possibility be allowed to enter, and which will 
be satisfied with nothing short of demonstrations exhibited to 
the senses, or based upon those observed phenomena called laws 
of nature, or self-evident truths. 

You say, the interests of the few — say, for example, of one 
man — should be sacrificed to those of the many. But how many? 
How will you determine the exact number to which it is right 
that one man should sacrifice his own interests? Say, one thou- 
sand. Then it is equally right that he should sacrifice his 
interests to nine hundred and ninety-nine, or else you are bound 
to show in what manner the reasons which make it right in the 
one instance, make it wrong in the other. And so I may go on 
subtracting one at a time from the original thousand until I 
reduce the number to a unit, and still you shall be unable to 
render a reason why it is right that one man's interest should be 
sacrificed to that of any one specified number, while it is wrong 
that it should be sacrificed to that of a number which is one less. 

The amount of the many, therefore, to which it is right that 
the few should sacrifice their interests must be matter of opinion, 
and the self-love of the few will sway their opinion in one 
direction, while the self-love of the many will sway theirs in the 
contrary direction. The one will have a natural tendency to fix 
the amount too low, while the other will have a natural tendency 
to fix it too high — and you have no standard by which to decide 
between them. Ten men would say, " we are ten in number — 
therefore you should sacrifice your single interest to ours." But 
the other would reply, ' c no — if you were twenty in number, I 
would consent perhaps." 

To these and fifty other questions, which it is impossible to 
answer otherwise than by reference to opinion, you subject 
yourself, so long as you continue to build your reasoning upon 
any other foundation than the observed phenomena of nature. 

B. 

Is it right for a thief to pick your pocket if he can ? 

A. 

If he can — certainly. But it is also right for me, if I can, to 
detect and punish him. We both obey the orders of our own 



456 RIGHT. 

self-love. To say he has a right to do it, is merely to say that he 
is ordered to do it — that is, tempted by his self-love or cupidity. 

The public opinion concerning thieving is irrational and 
absurd. Had Napoleon conquered England, he would but have 
been thought the greater hero. But the eye of reason sees no 
difference between stealing a kingdom, and stealing a pocket- 
handkerchief. It is the same with murder. We read in history 
that twenty thousand men fell in a brilliant action between 
general A and field-marshall B — that a hundred men were 
killed on board his Majesty's ship so-and-so, in a brilliant affair 
which the admiral had with the French ship so-and-so, from 
which such-and-such an amount of prize-money would be derived. 
We are not shocked ! We are only excited to admiration ! But 
if a highwayman stop you on the road, compel you to fight 
with him, overcome and kill you, and abstract your purse, we 
are horrified both at the murder and the theft. 

We do not call the First William, William "the Thief," but 
William "the Conqueror" Yet he stole the kingdom of England. 

There is no such thing as abstract justice — nor abstract nor 
innate principle of any kind- — nor is there any law which orders 
a man to sacrifice his own interest to that of another, or of a 
million of others. Nor can you show me any right or reason 
why the interests of the few should yield to those of the many, 
excepting only the single one of compulsion. For the law of 
self-love, in a single individual, operates as powerfully in one 
direction as the same law, in a million, operates in the opposite 
direction. And it is monstrous to suppose that, when two laws 
are operating, with equal forces, in opposite directions, one can 
yield to the other. For the self-loves (so to speak) of a million 
of men are not concentrated and applied to move one object, like 
a million of horses yoked to one wagon. But they are a million 
of different forces applied to move a million of different objects, 
viz. men. The intensity of the moving power, therefore, which 
moves a million of men is no greater than that which moves a 
single man. If you yoke one horse to one cart which you find 
he is unable to move, what will you gain by yoking a million of 
other horses to a million of other carts ? 

I suppose you will allow that every possible species of self- 



EIGHT. 457 

interest must resolve itself finally into the gratification of self- 
love. 

B. 

Of course. It cannot be denied, I think. 

A. 

Suppose Mr. A come to me and request me to sell him my 
house, at a fair valuation, that he may pull it down, in order 
that his self-love may be gratified by improving the prospect 
from his drawing-room windows. Am I bound to comply ? 

B. 

Certainly not, 

A. 

But suppose, the next day, Mr. B come to me with the same 
request, in order to the improvement of the prospect from his 
dining-room windows. Is Mr. A's first claim in any manner 
strengthened by this second claim of Mr. B ? 

B. 

Certainly not. 

A. 

Then if Mr. A^s claim be, in no degree, strengthened by the 
subsequent claim of one other man, it is mathematically certain 
that neither could it be in any degree strengthened by the 
claims of a million of other men. For nothing, multiplied by a 
million, is nothing still. 

Suppose the captain of a vessel with a crew of a dozen sailors, 
having on board a cargo of a thousand living sheep, are caught 
in a storm which makes it necessary to lighten the vessel. The 
sailors would throw the sheep overboard. What right have they 
to do so ? No man can show me the shadow of a right — 
excepting only the right of might. 

Now here is an instance in which the interests of the many 
are sacrificed to the interests of a few. Why ? Because, in this 
instance, the few are stronger than the many. Convert the 
sheep into African slaves, and precisely the same thing would 
happen for precisely the same reason. 

In the case of the slaves the right may possibly be disputed. 
In the case of the sheep, if sheep could talk, it would be 
disputed also. 

2 i 



458 RIGHT. 

But the truth of this doctrine is so broadly manifest, on the 
slightest unprejudiced reflection, that it cannot need further 
amplification. 

The law is universal. It holds even in the inorganic and 
vegetable kingdoms. If a large stone fall upon a smaller one, 
of the same kind, it will crush it. And if you plant a rose bush 
at the foot of a young oak, the oak will appropriate to itself so 
much of the nutriment of the soil, that the rose will be left to 
starve, wither, and die. An example of the fact, on a large 
scale, that the strong everywhere tyrannize over the weak, is at 
the present moment exhibited over more than half the entire 
earth. For the process of civilization — what is it but the 
tyranny of the strong over the weak ? — the tyranny of knowledge 
over ignorance ? — the tyranny of superior organization over one 
which is inferior ? It is impossible to cultivate the inferior 
tribes of men to any important extent. The organization of 
their brains and skulls will not permit it* — and civilization, 
with regard to these, is but another term for extermination. 
Look at North America — what has become of her people ? 
And what has become of her soil ? The blood of her children 
have fattened it, and the shedders of that blood possess it. 

In another century the New Zealander will have shared the 
fate of the Red Indian. And it is impossible not to foresee that 
the time is rapidly approaching when all the inferior human 
tribes shall be extinct, and their heritage, the earth, in undis- 
puted possession of their civilizers — that is to say, their 
conquerors and exterminators. 

B. 

If there be no such thing as disinterestedness, how do you 
account for certain historical facts — as, for instance, the volun- 
tary death of Marcus Curtius— and many other similar instances, 
all of which I will hold to be accounted for, if you can account 
for that one ? 

A. 

I have already alluded to the perturbations or oscillations 
round an invariable mean condition indicating disturbance in the 
laws which regulate the planetary motions. 

* See Lawrence's Lectures on Man. 



RIGHT. 459 

The laws which regulate the living actions constituting animal 
life are subject to similar disturbances. Thus, independently 
of the agency of any recognizable disease, we see men living in 
health up to the age of ninety years, while others die in health 
at the age of sixty or seventy. Yet the mean duration of human 
life, even now that it is subjected to so many additional 
disturbing causes — accidents arising out of a highly cultivated 
condition of society, and a multitudinous host of diseases — can 
nevertheless be calculated almost to a mathematical nicety. It 
is upon this self-compensating principle — this self-adjusting 
power — that the societies for the assurance of human life are 
erected, and which enables them to make their calculations with 
perfect security both to themselves and the assured. 

The law of self-love is subject, in like manner, to similar 
disturbances. It oscillates, as it were, to the right and to the 
left of a mean line of direction — which mean line points directly 
to the self-preservation of the species — and finally accomplishes 
this great general object in spite of all disturbing causes. 

Codrus and Marcus Curtius, who sacrificed themselves for the 
supposed advantage of their country, are examples of men 
obeying a disturbed law — of men seeking the general good, not 
in the direction pointed out by nature, but in a direction of their 
own choosing. Nature has determined that the general welfare 
shall be secured by a law which secures the welfare of each 
individual — the law of individual self-love. The self-love of 
Marcus Curtius was a disturbed law, which impelled him to seek 
the general good in a different direction from that provided by 
nature, viz. by destroying himself, instead of protecting himself. 
The good of the whole is the ultimate, not the immediate, end of 
individual self-love. Its immediate end is manifestly individual 
self-preservation. This being so, that law which defeats its 
object, and achieves one which is diametrically opposite to the 
object proposed by the institution of the law, must necessarily 
be a disturbed law. The immediate end proposed by the insti- 
tution of the law of self-love in Marcus Curtius was to preserve 
Marcus Curtius. But the end achieved was his destruction. 

Nature cannot be supposed to institute laws with a view to 
defeat their own objects. 

2 i 2 



460 RIGHT. 

But was the act of Marcus Curtius instigated by self-love at 
all ? Unquestionably. He was a martyr — a martyr to patriot- 
ism — and all martyrs, whether to pride, to ambition, to 
military glory, to love, to philanthropy, or to religion, are insti- 
gated by self-love. They are all flying from punishment, or 
running full tilt in pursuit of happiness, in one shape or other, 
either here or hereafter. If you require authority for this — if 
your own reason and observation be not sufficient — then I refer 
you to themselves. They are themselves my authority. What 
are the motives which they allege for their conduct ? Is it not 
reward in some shape or other ? immortal honor ? immortal 
glory ? immortal happiness ? And does not the philanthropist 
speak of the cc delicious satisfaction which he feels in doing good?" 
Plenty of game in the hunting-fields of the good spirit is the 
reward to which the wild Indian looks, and in expectation of 
which he is ready, at any moment, to become a martyr. Plenty 
of strong ale or mead, quaffed in the halls of Valhallah, from the 
sculls of their enemies, was the reward for which our northern 
ancestors welcomed martyrdom with savage joy. A paradise 
filled with troops of houris is the reward of Mahometan martyr- 
dom. The martyrs to the Catholic religion, both reformed and 
unreformed, exulted in their sufferings. Why ? They them- 
selves have told us : " Because of the crown of glory which 
awaits those who suffer for conscience sake, and because of their 
reward which is in heaven." Self-love frequently manifests 
itself in the form of the dread of punishment alone. Thus hun- 
dreds of thousands yearly become martyrs, to a greater or less 
extent, from a dread of disgracing themselves in the eye of 
public opinion. 

All these instances are but so many examples of martyrdom to 
the disturbed law of self-love. And Marcus Curtius undoubtedly 
looked forward to his reward also — either in the shape of 
immortal posthumous renown, or immortal posthumous felicity. 

In a word, there is but one kind of martyr — the martyr to 
the disturbed law of self-love. I say disturbed law — for that 
must be a disturbed law which defeats its own object. And 
that it is a disturbed law is further proved by the punishment 
which nature instantly inflicts upon the disturber, to a greater or 



RIGHT. 461 

less extent, according to the greater or less amount of the dis- 
turbance. 

In cultivated communities the law of self-love — the autophilic 
law — is, almost universally, a disturbed law, and the few who 
dare to obey the genuine undisturbed law are branded by the 
many with opprobrious epithets— mean, base, selfish. 

I cannot pursue this argument into all its minutise of proofs 
and examples. I must leave something to be done by yourself. 
From the first I have only pretended to offer you "food for 
thought," and to point out to you that altar whereat, and that 
temple wherein, every lover of philosophy must pray, if the 
object of his prayer be true knowledge — I mean the altar of 
speech, and that temple whose roof is the heavens, and whose 
floor is the magnificent mosaic of the earth's surface. 

One very frequent cause of disturbance in the autophilic law 
— the law of self-love — -is wealth. 

The immediate and direct object of self-love is to furnish 
the individual with the necessaries of life. But when a man has 
secured to himself these necessaries for the whole term of his life, 
the immediate and direct object of the autophilic law is removed. 
But the law is not therefore abolished. A law of nature cannot 
be annihilated at the caprice of man, nor by any human exertion 
or ingenuity. What is the consequence ? Why, that its energies 
are directed towards other objects. And here commence the 
whims, and caprices, and madness of men. And herein is to be 
found the solution of the enigma of human folly. Now it is 
that men become patriots, and philanthropists — and political 
orators, and build hospitals, and found universities. These men 
are but obeying a disturbed self -love — a self-love which, having 
lost its prime and legitimate object, is seeking a new one. 

Herein too must be sought the only true and unquestionable 
definition of insanity. A perfectly sane, i. e. sound man is he in 
whom all the laws of his life and nature are so fulfilled as to 
accomplish completely all the objects of their institution — of 
which the first is self-preservation. If this be so — and surely it 
cannot be denied — then it follows that he is insane, i. e. unsound, 
in whom the laws of his nature act in a direction which defeats 
the object for which they were established. Every man, there- 



462 RIGHT. 

fore, is more or less insane whose actions have a necessary- 
tendency to his own destruction — and that condition of society 
which compels men to " kill themselves in order to live" — to 
shorten their lives by overtasked exertion — is an insane con- 
dition. This is what I meant when I said some time since that 
we are all, more or less, mad — for we are all, with few exceptions, 
overtasking our strength, and shortening our lives, or at least 
enfeebling our health and strength, and thus endangering our 
lives either in order to procure the mere necessaries of life, or to 
conciliate the favor of that most ruthless of all oppressors, 
public opinion. 

A young man goes into business, the legitimate object of 
which is to procure the means of living for himself and depen- 
dents. But this does not satisfy public opinion, which urges him 
to do more than this — to elevate himself in the scale of society 
■ — to make a respectable appearance — and, if possible, to make 
such provision for his family after his death, as shall enable them 
to live in comfort without labour. In attempting to obey this 
tyrannical mandate, he overtasks his strength, ruins his health, 
and shortens his life — and if he do this, he is as undeniably a 
suicide as he who cuts his own throat — and is, therefore, to that 
extent, insane. The mere means by which a man deprives himself 
of life can make no difference to the eye of reason, in the character 
of the act of killing. But it makes all the difference in the eye of 
public opinion, which halloos ! him on to destroy himself — to 
crack the very sinews of his health — in straining after that 
phantom, a "respectable appearance," and in attempting to 
raise himself and family in the scale of society; while, if he 
resort to the more simple process of a garter and a bed-post, it 
brands him for a self-murderer, drives a stake through his body, 
and buries him with ignominy in the four-cross-ways. 

Neither can the amount of that portion of life of which a 
man deprives himself, make any difference to the character of 
the act. For a man who cuts his throat at seventy, is as certainly 
a suicide as he who does it at twenty. 

He, therefore, who, whether at the instigation of public 
opinion, the tone of public feeling, the mode of public thinking, 
public morals or public politics, or excited by actual disease of 



RIGHT. 463 

his own brain, chases an object, the pursuit of which, be it what 
it may, injures his health or shortens his life, though it be but 
to the amount of a dozen years, is both a suicide and a madman 
— or a victim to the moral oppression — the strong coercion — 
exercised by the strength of the many over the weakness of the 
few. Most men start in life with the hope to make a fortune, 
and are applauded by public opinion for the attempt. If it be 
right to make the attempt, it must also be right to succeed. 
And if it be right for one man to succeed, success must be 
equally commendable in all. Yet if all did succeed, universal 
poverty and utter and general disorganization must be the 
inevitable result — and the Duke of Wellington must not only 
dig his own potatoes, but wash and cook them too. For if all 
men were rich, where would they find servants ? 

Here then, public opinion lauds to the skies an attempt involv- 
ing in itself the certain destruction, to a greater or less amount, 
of the health — and the very success of which, not only defeats 
the object of the attempt, but necessarily results in the total 
disorganization of society. Yet the attempt must be made. 
For him who neglects to do so, public opinion will brand with 
odium and disgrace. 

Surely a condition of men involving such gross anomalies, 
impossibilities, and absurd self-contradictions, cannot be other 
than insane, i. e. unsound. 

Let me give you an instance of another anomaly. 

Suppose a man of but little physical power, and of small 
stature, goes into business as a general shopkeeper, in a country 
town, the inhabitants of which are only enow to support one 
shop of the kind. Now suppose a stronger man then he comes 
into his house, takes him by the collar, expels him and his 
family from the town, packs up his wares for him, sends them 
after him, and sets up business himself in the room of the 
other. Is the strong man justified — has he a right to do this ? 

B. 

Of course not — and any laws which would suffer it would be 
most unjust, oppressive, and unnatural. 

A. 

Very will. Now suppose the case of another man who also 



464 RIGHT. 

goes into business in a country town — a man somewhat dull 
witted, and with but little mental energy, and naturally deficient 
in tact and shrewdness — but who, nevertheless, is able to scrape 
together a tolerable livelihood for himself and family, because 
there is no other of the same trade in the town. Now again, 
suppose a sharp-witted, hawk-eyed, active, intelligent fellow, on 
the look-out for a favourable spot wherein to commence business, 
taking advantage of the natural dulness and want of talent in 
the other, sets himself down in the same town, in the same 
business — and by his superior abilities in selecting and pur- 
chasing goods (which would enable him to sell them at a cheaper 
rate than the other) and by his superior tact in pleasing cus- 
tomers, attracts all the trade to his own shop, and ruins the 
other» Has he a right to do this ? Oh ! yes, say you — cer- 
tainly. But why ? Why has a man no right to injure another 
by means of that part of his body, consisting of muscle and 
bone, and called an arm, while he has a right to injure him by 
that other part of his body, consisting of a pulpy matter, and 
called a brain ? It would be as reasonable to say that one man 
may injure another with his right hand, but not with his left. 
Or that you may knock me down with a stick, but not with a 
stone ! In both instances the result is the same — viz. the ruin 
of another. And the means adopted are also the same — viz. the 
superior organization or strength of some part of the body. 

And even if you still persist in calling the mind a separate 
existence, it makes no difference. For superior strength is still 
superior strength, whether of mind or body. 

Yet, while physical oppression is forbidden, intellectual 
oppression is allowed. But oppression and its effects are the 
same, in either case, and the laws which allow either are, to use 
your own words, " most unjust, oppressive, and unnatural." 

Nature has laid down the law that the weak shall be subject 
to the strong. Man has laid down a law that the weak shall 
not be subject to the strong. The human law, as we have just 
seen, fails to achieve its object. For what nature is not allowed 
to achieve by physical superiority, she achieves by mental 
superiority — and thus compensates for the disturbance in her 
original law. The natural law is accomplished. i\Jl that the 



RIGHT. 465 

human law has done is to disturb the natural law — merely 
substituting strength of brain for strength of limb. The 
natural law is disturbed, not abolished — and compensation is made 
for the disturbance — the machinery of the natural law adjusts 
itself — and the same end is obtained by merely a variation of the 
means. The line of direction oscillates and becomes crooked — 
but its extreme points are one and co-equal with the extreme 
points of the undisturbed straight line. 

What is the abstract justice of the latter case here supposed ? 
You cannot tell. Why ? Because there is no such thing as 
abstract justice. Wherein consists the right of the talented 
man, by his talents, to ruin his neighbour ? Both the right and 
the justice consist in the order and command promulgated in that 
law of nature which declares that the weak shall everywhere be 
subject to the strong. 

In every highly cultivated community all the natural laws are 
disturbed. Artificial diet, artificial habits, artificial excitement — 
the custom of seeking a livelihood by the sweat of the brain 
instead of the sweat of the brow — the first effect of all these is 
to disturb the fundamental laws of health and life itself — viz. 
absorption, secretion, circulation, and respiration. From this 
disturbance in these fundamental laws result disease, premature 
death of individuals, and an offspring and a population sickly in 
health and puny in strength. Hence that almost countless host 
of diseases to which polished societies are subject. Talk of the 
plague ! The victims to the plague, in this kingdom, in any one 
century, are as nothing compared with the numbers who perish, 
in the same period, of scrofulous disorders, especially that called 
consumption, which in nine cases out of ten are the result of a 
puny and depreciated condition of the health of the parents, 
from the causes just mentioned. 

From a depreciated condition of the health and strength results 
a morbid sensibility which causes men to be impressed strongly 
by things which, in a natural and healthy state, could only 
affect them feebly. The laws of human life being disturbed, 
while the rest of creation remains in its natural condition, the 
original relation established between man and the things and 
circumstances wherewith he is surrounded, is necessarily de- 



466 RIGHT. 

stroyed. Thus instead of being a creature of reason, he becomes 
only a creature of morbid feeling. And his conduct, instead of 
being influenced by healthy impressions made upon sound organs 
and healthy senses, is governed by those unhealthy impressions 
made upon unsound organs and unhealthy senses, called impulses 
— impulses of feeling— the capricious impulses of a morbid 
sensibility — -capricious, because varying according to the greater 
or less amount of the morbidity of the system which they move 
and direct. From this morbid sensibility— this disturbance in 
the natural relation between men and things arise the caprices 
and eccentricities of men, in all their various shades and colors 
■ — hence madness — hence suicide. 

And although, perhaps, slight traces of these may be found 
even in the natural condition of man, yet as he advances towards 
cultivation, they increase with so much rapidity as to give them 
a just claim to be called the sole offspring of a refined condition 
of society. 

Hence, too, results that perversion of the natural relation 
between cause and effect, making the lesser cause produce the 
stronger impression, and the greater cause the weaker impres- 
sion, as exemplified in the fact that, while the account of a 
dozen victims tomahawked to death and afterwards scalped by a 
party of Red Indians, thrills us with horror, the account of such 
a battle as that of Waterloo makes us shout with triumphant joy. 

In the eye of a healthy reason,* wherein does this triumphant 
shout of joy raised by polished Englishmen differ from the 
barbarous yell raised by the victorious savage on a similar 
occasion, viz. the death of his enemy ? Why do we call the one a 
" savage yell marking the barbarian's delight in blood and 
slaughter," while we delicately term the other merely the 
" shout of victory?" The savage no more delights in blood than 
we do. He merely delights in victory over his enemies. Do 
not we the same ? If not, whence the shoutings, and rejoicings, 
and illuminations after the battle of Waterloo ? The rejoicings 
of a civilized nation after a victory are a thousand times greater, 
more noisy, and more prolonged than those of any savages under 

* That is, to a man whose senses are (not morbidly, but) healthily im- 
pressed with the things around him. * 



RIGHT. 467 

the sun. How we laugh at the savage for painting his body- 
when he goes on the war path ! " Poor, ignorant, benighted, 
blinded creature \" cry we. And then, with the exclamation on 
our lips, gravely proceed to do the very same thing. 

B. 

The same thing ! Do our warriors paint their bodies, then, 
when they go into battle ? 

A. 

Do they not ? The " poor, benighted savage" covers his 
body with red paint, or paint of some other color — the enlight- 
ened, intellectual, British soldier covers his with scarlet cloth. 
We practice the one, and ridicule the other. What a wise and 
enlightened distinction ! — -a distinction without a difference. 
Whatever good results to the soldier from the color of his cloth, 
results to the savage from the color of his paint. 

I lately read an account of a Pawnee dandy at his toilette, 
and laughed to observe the absolute no- difference between the 
savage, and the civilized, puppy. 

In France alone, the suicides, in 1836, amounted to 2,310 — 
in 1837, to 2,413— in 1838, to 2,556— in 1839, to 2,717— 
showing not only an increase since 1836, but an increasing 
increase. 

Ten thousand self-murderers in one civilized kingdom 
in the short space of four years ! ! What an argument for 
the blessings of civilization ! ! To these must be added the tens 
of thousands who lose their lives from accidents in some way or 
other connected with the pursuits of civilized men — and the 
many thousands who perish prematurely from diseases exclu- 
sively peculiar to civilization — and the many thousands more 
who howl away their lives within the walls of madhouses. What 
a temptation to the New Zealanders to become polished par- 
takers of these privileges. 

The cry of the age is for facts — "give us facts !" What 
fact in the world is more unmistakeably manifest than that 
disease and premature death, madness, suicide, and blood- 
guiltiness, dog the heels of men, multiplying at every step, 
throughout their entire progress from the simple habits of 
nature towards those of art and cultivation, which is boastingly 



468 RIGHT. 

termed the "march of intellect V 3 What axiom in Euclid is 
more self-evidently true, than that while barbarism slays her 
thousands, cultivation and refinement destroy their tens of 
millions ? 

B. 

I am afraid I must have misunderstood you. For you cannot 
mean to say that a person ought, or it is right for him, to rob 
or oppress, or murder another, merely because he can do so 
with impunity. Would you tell your child it was right for him 
to deceive, or rob, or vilify you, if he could do so undetected ? 
This does not appear to me to be morality, but brutality ! 

A. 

I am not at all surprised at your question, although it is no 
more consequent upon anything I have said than the question 
of the sun's diameter. It only proves (what to me required no 
proof) the ineradicable perversity with which men will persist in 
using words, like parrots, without attaching to them any definite 
meaning. For ten months I have been labouring to show you 
the necessity of using all important words in an argument in a 
clear, uniform, and definite sense. And you have both listened 
with attention, and acknowledged this necessity — yet you go on, 
still as ever, hit or miss, in the same random, indefinite, 
unmeaning use of words as before. I set out at the commence- 
ment of the moral mathematics by defining the word right to 
signify that which is ordered — and the words ought and duty to 
mean that which a man owes. But what care you for definitions ? 
Your mathematics, having nothing to do with truth, can do 
without definitions either. What a curious perversion of the 
truth, too, is contained in the last sentence of what you have 
just uttered. You say, to murder, rob, deceive, or vilify one's 
parents, is not morality, but brutality ? Is it so ? Morality 
signifies the manners and habits of men — brutality, the manners 
and habits of brutes. Is it in accordance with the manners and 
habits of brutes to oppress and murder, unless it be for food, or 
when they are at war with each other ? Is it their custom to 
rob, deceive, or vilify their parents ? Cheating, and lying, and 
robbing, and murdering for money, or for ambition, or for what 
are termed honour and glory, form no part of the manners of 



RIGHT. 469 

the uneducated brutes ! — these are human, not brutal, customs ! 
and you yourself, not a moment since, were guilty of nearly the 
whole of them — for you vilified the brutes when you assigned 
to them, by the term brutality, manners and customs which are 
peculiar to men, and of which the uneducated brutes are entirely 
innocent. And it is not true that their vices constitute bru- 
tality, i. e. the manners and habits of brutes. And it is not 
honest to attribute to one party vices which belong exclusively 
to the other. How then can you call it brutality to rob, cheat, 
and murder one's parents merely because it can be done with 
impunity ? There is but one reason — the habit of using words 
either without definite meanings or with no meaning at all. 

Two young men had refused to dine with Rowland Hill, 
because, they said, he would not drink with them. "If you 
will but come," said Mr. Hill, " I will not only drink with you, 
but get as drunk as a beast." They went — and Mr. Hill kept 
his word — he did get as drunk as a beast — that is to say, 
not drunk at all — for beasts never get drunk. 

u As drunk as a lord" is much the better phrase. 

You will observe that it is only for uneducated brutes that I 
have claimed exemption from vices. For it is with brutes as 
with men. Educate them — domesticate them — civilize them — 
for the words are of the same import — and vice and disease, ever 
the natural spawn of education, are instantly seen crawling 
around them. And the domestic rabbit and sow begin to 
devour their own young — and the stabled horse to become lame, 
blind, vicious and diseased. 

I do not use the word education to signify the mere learning 
of the a, b, c — but to denote generally that deviation from a 
natural condition called the march of intellect, elevation of the 
human mind, improved condition of society, and other such 
unmeaning terms. 

Knowledge is power. Most true — but is it happiness ? The 
one has been proved and acknowledged — the other, taken for 
granted without proof, without consideration, and without 
question. 

You have repeatedly accused me of reiterating the same thing 
too often. I have already reiterated that the word right signifies 



470 RIGHT. 

that which is ordered. Yet your question shows that you have 
already forgotten it — and you thus oblige me to reiterate it once 
again. By jumbling the two words "right or ought" together, 
as though they imported the same thing, you have made it 
impossible to answer your question as one, for it is not one, but 
two questions— and these, too, requiring exactly opposite answers. 
To your question, "is it right to commit these crimes?" I 
answer, "yes." To your question, (< ought a man to commit 
them," I answer, "no." If a man commit a crime, he has a 
right to do so — for men never act at all without a right, i. e. an 
order or motive, or a something which moves them, of some kind 
or other. But that order may be the mere bidding of another 
man — or, what is called temptation — or malice — or what not. 
If I order you to murder your child, and you do so accordingly, 
and I am asked whether you had a right to do so, I answer, 
" yes ;" for that only means that you were ordered or told to do 
so. But whether you ought to do so — that is, whether it be 
your duty to do so — is quite a different matter. If a boy see 
the corner of a new silk handkerchief peeping out of my pocket, 
and steal it in consequence, he has a right to do so — for that 
only means that he is ordered, or moved, or tempted, to do so. 
If you order a new pair of shoes of your shoe-maker, he has a 
right to make them — that is, he has an order to do so. But 
whether he ought to make them is quite another question. And 
although he has the right or order to make them, the question 
whether he ought to make them — whether he owes it to himself 
to make them — whether it be a duty which he owes to his own 
interests to make them — will depend, I fancy, upon whether he 
believes you mean to pay for them. 

It is this jumbling together of words, having different 
meanings, which forms the immedicable malady of moral 
reasoners. 

The first great earthly duty of man is that which he owes to 
his own preservation. And the second (at least in the order of 
time) is that which he owes to his offspring. And these are 
his duties because they are — not merely orders— but orders of 
nature — orders or laws which the Creator has laid down for the 
achievement of his great purpose, the preservation of the whole. 



RIGHT. 471 

And what more beautiful, simple, and infallible scheme could 
have been possibly devised for this end, than a law, irresistibly 
stringent, whose immediate effect is to compel every one to take 
care of himself and offspring. For if every individual obey this 
law, is not the well-being of the whole infallibly accomplished ? 
A man ought, therefore — that is, he owes it to himself and 
offspring — that is, it is a duty which he owes to himself and 
offspring — a duty which he owes also to the accomplishment of 
the Creator's great purpose — to seek his own safety and welfare, 
and to shun danger. But to rob, murder, and oppress, would 
be to seek danger and to shun safety — it would be to invite 
retaliation, or court the vengeance of the law — and is, therefore, 
contrary to the duty which men owe to themselves and to the 
Creator's designs. But, say you, ought men to do these things 
provided they could do them with impunity ? The question is 
idle, insignificant, and self-contradictory — and the case supposed 
impossible. For if one man ought to do these things, then all 
men ought to do so too — for human duties are universal and the 
same. Thus, if Mr. A ought to murder Mr. B, whenever he 
could do so with impunity, Mr. Somebody-else ought in his turn 
to murder Mr. A, upon the same principle. And this state of 
things would be one of constant universal danger, instead of 
universal security. A condition of impunity, therefore, is 
incompatible with this condition of things. And it is impossible, 
as I have just said, that this condition and a condition of 
impunity should exist together. 

But if a man be reduced to inevitable starvation, after having 
made every possible honest effort to save himself, that man has 
a right to steal from his neighbour, and it is his duty to steal 
from his neighbour also ; for here the right — that is, the order, 
is an order of nature — and not to steal becomes a crime — a breach 
of the duty which every man owes to himself, to his offspring, 
and, through them, to the accomplishment of the preservation 
of the whole. I have here (fortunately) a very high authority 
in my favor. It has been laid down by one (perhaps more) of 
our great judges, I am almost certain by judge Hale, but am not 
quite sure of the name, that if a man have made every possible 
effort, and is nevertheless in imminent danger of death from 



4>72 RIGHT. 

starvation, that man is justified in going into a baker's shop and 
stealing bread — and that, if he could prove he had made every 
possible effort, the law would hold him guiltless. 

The reason of this is very evident. For if a man suffer 
himself to die, having within his reach the means of living, he 
commits murder ; and refuses to perform his share towards the 
accomplishment of the great ultimate law of God, the preserva- 
tion of the whole. God has said to every man : " you shall live 
and beget offspring, and so contribute your share towards the 
accomplishment of my design." But he who commits murder 
rebels against this command- — and, instead of contributing to 
the safety of the whole, he contributes to the destruction of the 
whole by destroying one of its parts. And it is no matter 
whether he kill himself or kill another — it is no matter whether 
Mr. A kill Mr. A or Mr. B — in either case a man is killed— and 
it is the destruction of a man which constitutes the offence — it 
is because it is a breach of the laws of God that it becomes an 
offence, and not because it is a breach of the laws of man. The 
crime of murder can neither be aggravated nor diminished by 
any question as to who was the murderer. Mr. A is murdered. 
Who murdered him ? Perhaps Mr. B. By and bye, however, 
it is discovered that he murdered himself. Very well — then 
Mr. B. is exonerated, and Mr. A is inculpated. But the offence 
is in no wise altered — God's law still remains as completely 
broken as before — the injury to the great whole remains the 
same — the amount of injury, and therefore the intensity of the 
offence, is neither lessened nor increased merely because you 
have discovered the true offender. Self-murder, therefore, is as 
great a crime as the murder of another. 

The intensity of every crime must be measured by the amount 
of injury which it inflicts upon the whole — by the greater or 
less amount of its tendency to destroy the whole. Murder is an 
injury inflicted directly upon the living whole, for it consists of 
the absolute destruction of a part of the living whole. It has, 
therefore, a direct tendency to destroy the whole — while stealing 
a loaf of bread, although even this, by breeding quarrels, has 
also a similar tendency, yet this tendency is not direct, but 
remote. 



RIGHT. 473 

These are the reasons why it is a man's duty, if he can by no 
means procure it otherwise, to steal bread rather than to starve. 
It is because stealing puts the great whole in less jeopardy than 
murder — in the latter case, the injury is instant and certain — in 
the former, only remote and probable. 

If it were a law of nature — that is, a duty — that men should 
murder and injure each other merely because they could do so 
with impunity, (which I have already shown to be impossible) 
then we should discover this law in operation. But go in search 
of this law and tell me in which page of the book of nature it 
is written. You will nowhere find it so laid down. There are 
no beings, either brute or human, that delight in murder and 
oppression for no other reason than because they can do it with 
impunity. Neither man nor brute ever does anything without 
some motive. And whether that motive be a proper one or not 
belongs, as I have said, to another question. 

The final object of all the laws of nature, as is proved by the 
fact that they all have that one tendency, is the preservation of 
the whole. But to have created animals with a natural pro- 
pensity to destroy each other, for no other reason than for 
destruction's sake, would have been to institute a law, the direct 
tendency of which would have been to destroy the perfect 
integrity of the whole, by utterly annihilating that part of the 
whole which consists of living animals, or that race of living 
animals in which this propensity existed. 

The great lawgiver has not legislated after this bungling 
fashion. It is human law alone which exhibits such blunders, 
as I hope to show presently. 

B. 

The two great human duties, therefore, are self-preservation, 
and the preservation of offspring — and the two great human 
motives to fulfil these duties are self-love and love of offspring. 
And the final cause of all human duties is the preservation of 
the perfect integrity of the whole — and these duties are uni- 
versal and immutable, and therein distinguished from re- 
ligious rites or duties, which are subject to change, for 
they have changed, and which differ in different parts of the 
world. 

2 K 



474 RIGHT. 

A. 

Yes- — I am only concerned with laws and duties which are 
universal and immutable, and therefore have no concern with 
religious duties. But be pleased to remember that, although I 
have spoke of the " perfect integrity" of the whole as the grand 
object, I use the word " perfect" with reference to God's design, 
and not with reference to the opinions of men or what they may 
please to look upon as perfection. I call that a perfect system 
which is as God designed it to be — which is the undisturbed 
unique result of those laws which God has laid down to govern 
its several parts. The very evils, therefore, as some men are 
pleased to call them— I mean those so-called evils which are 
manifestly inseparable from a system — do by no means detract 
from the perfection of that system — for its perfection consists in 
being exactly what God by his laws — for no one will deny the 
laws of nature to be the laws of God — has ordered it to be. I 
know very well that occasionally certain species both of animals 
and vegetables have disappeared, without the intervention of any 
human agency to disturb the laws of their existence — and a 
planet may now and then be disruptured, and its surface be 
repeopled with new living things. But these are matters beyond 
the reach of human interference, and are therefore clearly a part 
of the general scheme. They are merely disturbances however — * 
small oscillations — mere temporary deviations from the direct 
line of accomplishment. And we can by no means take these for an 
example, and make them an excuse for neglecting the duties and 
the laws which are manifestly laid down for our observance. 
We have, in fact, nothing whatever to do with them. We have 
nothing to do with any laws but those which relate to ourselves 
—and with these we have nothing to do also — except to obey 
them—without making insane attempts to alter, modify, or 
amend them. 

B. 

You have yet said nothing about man's duty to his neighbour. 
Is it not my duty to succour my neighbour ? 

A. 

The duty is unquestionable— and, if you will look abroad, you 
will see it, like every other duty, in universal operation — more 



RIGHT. 4r, 5 

fully and constantly, however — that is, with fewer exceptions — 
and less disturbance to the law — in uncultivated, than in culti- 
vated, communities. You will find the exceptions and the 
disturbance increase in proportion as society advances in cultiva- 
tion and refinement. The reason is plain. For as society 
advances in cultivation, greater numbers of men become inde- 
pendent of their neighbours. 

The duty, that I should succour my neighbour, is unquestion- 
able. It is a duty which I owe. But to whom or to what do I 
owe it ? To my neighbour ? No — I owe it to myself- — for the 
poet was right who declared that " self-love and social are the 
same/'' 

Man being a gregarious animal — a social, not a solitary being 
—is every instant more or less dependent on his neighbour to 
assist him in procuring food, and repelling danger. And the 
readiness of his neighbour to assist him will depend upon the 
readiness which he has himself shown aforetime to assist his 
neighbour. Men five ever surrounded by their fellow-men — in 
tribes, villages, towns, cities — and experience and observation 
teach them that they are also everywhere surrounded by danger — 
that these dangers are often of a nature which nothing can 
repel but the assistance of others — as, for instance, sickness, 
accidents, conflagrations, and overmastering enemies. Man is 
never a self-depending being. The experience and observation 
of every hour keep this fact perpetually before his eyes, and 
make him conscious of it unceasingly. The same observation 
and experience, either in his own person or that of others, are 
also perpetually exhibiting examples of the punishment which 
infallibly awaits him in some shape or other, who will do nothing 
to assist others. "Do unto others as you would have others 
do unto you," is a perfectly wise maxim, therefore — obedience to 
which has a constant and direct tendency to the self-preservation 
of each individual. The truth of this maxim, and the necessity 
for obeying it, become so deeply graven on the hearts of all men, 
that it forms an ever ready motive prompting them to instant 
action on the most sudden emergencies. It is clearly founded, 
however, on self-love, and not on the love of one's neighbour. 
The latter half of the sentence — " as you would have others do 

2 k 2 



476 RIGHT. 

unto you" — of itself would be sufficient to betray its origin. 
The various maxims, and sententious aphorisms, purporting the 
same thing are almost numberless. "Win golden opinions from 
all sorts of men/' is another of precisely the same nature. ' ' Be 
kind, affable, and polite to all men, however poor and humble/' 
are words in the mouths of all. And they are generally followed 
up by some such reason as this : " for you don't know how soon 
you may yourself require their assistance ; and there are none so 
poor and humble who may not have power to injure or to 
succour you/' " Give alms to the poor/' Why ? They who 
give the advice generally give the reason along with it — "for you 
don't know how soon you may become poor yourself, and need 
the charity of others." Yet these people who invariably accom- 
pany this advice with this reason, if you were to ask them 
whether their motive for bestowing alms be an interested and 
selfish one, would loudly declare that it is not so. How curious ! 

Please others, that others may please you. Serve others, that 
others may serve you. Use your neighbour as you, desire your 
neighbour to use you. These are the principles which govern 
the conduct of all ranks and denominations of men — good, bad, 
and indifferent — in "court, camp, and grove" — in matters of 
business, matters of pleasure, matters of friendship, matters of 
love. The principle is as universal as the principle of self-love 
■ — for the two are one and the same. The objects which a man 
will first succour are himself and offspring. 

The second are his own near relations. For these being those 
with whom he is accustomed to hold the most frequent com- 
munion, they are likewise those who would be generally nearest 
at hand, and therefore are those to whom he would be compelled 
to apply, should he himself require assistance. These are they, 
too, with whom the reciprocation of good offices has already 
begun in childhood. With these a debtor and creditor account 
has probably been already established. 

The third are the members of his own sept, tribe, or clan — 
his own immediate neighbours, or townsmen, or shipmates, or 
shopmates, in preference to strangers — for the same reason. 

Fourthly, his own countrymen in preference to foreigners—- 
for the same reason. 



RIGHT. 477 

Fifthly, his own species in preference to brute-animals — for 
the same reason. 

Observation will prove that this is the diminishing ratio of 
■preference which men exercise in the distribution of their acts of 
kindness and services. And you will observe that the ratio of 
preference diminishes exactly as the probability of repayment 
diminishes. It has been acutely observed by somebody, that the 
knowledge that a man's little finger was to be amputated in the 
morning, would be more likely to disturb the night's rest of that 
man, than his knowledge that the whole empire of China was to 
be destroyed by an earthquake. 

As society advances, and men become wealthy, the conviction 
that they can always buy the services of others, disturbs the 
natural operation of this part of the law of self-love. 

There is a blind woman who sits by the road-side, in my 
neighbourhood, knitting stockings, in the hope of alms. I have 
seen scores of poor persons drop a half-penny each into her lap 
as they passed. I never saw one well-dressed person imitate the 
example. Every poor person feels that he may himself become 
a blind beggar. The wealthy know it to be almost impossible 
that they should become such. The wealthy man stops to 
reason with himself — and says to himself, "it is wrong to 
encourage begging." The poor man does not stop to reason at 
all about the matter — in his case the law is undisturbed, and in 
full force — and he yields to it instant obedience. 

But even among the wealthy, the agreement of the ratio of 
preference with the probability of repayment is distinctly trace- 
able. Their acts of courtesy, and little kindnesses and civilities 
are chiefly confined to their own class. And I fear it must be 
generally allowed that their acts of public charity find a strong- 
motive in the applause — in the character for benevolence — which 
such acts win — not from the objects of their charity — but from 
their own class. 

I think no one who has been an observer of the manners and 
habits of men, can deny that the readiness to serve and oblige 
one's neighbour is much greater among the poor than among 
the wealthy — in proportion to the means of each. 

The disposition, therefore, to do to others as we would have 



478 RIGHT. 

others do to us, is weakened, not strengthened, as society 
advances towards cultivation and refinement — and the duty is 
less cheerfully and less constantly fulfilled. 

If you think there is anything in my mathematics having a 
tendency to disorganize society or burst its bonds, I can only 
say that you wilfully pervert them — for they have no such 
tendency. I say to you : " serve your neighbour." But I also 
say : " serve yourself first." For there is no intelligible reason 
or motive why you should injure yourself to serve another — 
since it is clearly just as great an offence against God to injure 
yourself, as it is to injure another man. If it make no difference 
in the crime whether Mr. A. injures a certain Mr. B. or a 
certain Mr. C, so neither can it make any difference whether he 
injure a certain Mr. A. — that is, himself. In either case, a man 
is injured — and that one fact alone constitutes the offence. All 
I would do here is to refer effects to their right causes. For 
much ignorance and mischief have arisen to mankind from 
attributing the effects to which I here allude to wrong causes. 

Serve all — be kind to all. But if you ask me, why? I answer: 
" in order that all may serve you y and be kind to you." 

B. 

This is a cold and most icy philosophy. 

A. 

I know not whether my philosophy be hot or cold. I only 
know it is the philosophy of fact — that is, truth — and that same 
warm philosophy — which is, indeed, nothing more than a morbid 
warmth of feeling— has inflicted great evils on mankind, much 
and many of which, I fear, are now irreparable — and will remain 
so until, having reached their acme, indignant nature shall take 
the matter into her own hands, and cure the malady by so 
severe an operation as shall almost destroy the life of the patient. 

B. 

You said some time since that there is no such thing as what 
Mr. Thomas Paine calls the " inalienable" rights of man. Have 
not all men an "inalienable" right to the possession of their 
limbs, and to the produce of their own labor ? 

A. 

That is to say, " is it ordered and commanded by God that all 



RIGHT. 479 

men shall preserve their limbs, and enjoy the fruits of their own 
labor V If there be any such order or command from God — 
that is, law of nature — then we have nothing to do but open 
our eyes and look, and we shall see the fact, if fact it be, just as 
easily as we can see the fact that stones everywhere fall to the 
ground. But do we see that such is the fact ? Do all men 
preserve their limbs to their life's end ? Do all men enjoy the 
fruits of their own labor ? Are no man's limbs, and the produce 
of no man's labor, ever " alienated" from him for the pleasure 
or profit of others ? On the contrary, have not men in all ages 
of the world (and more so at the present moment, than in any 
past time whatever) been constantly liable to lose their limbs by 
accidents — not to mention other numerous causes ? And have 
I not already informed you of the law, and shown you the 
fact, that everywhere the weak are subject to the strong, and 
must frequently, therefore, yield up the fruits of their labor to 
those who have strength to compel submission ? Each particular 
man is ordered by nature to keep his limbs safe, and to enjoy 
the fruits of his own labor. But nothing can be more manifest 
than that the order to do this must be limited by the power to 
do this. 

The law, therefore, plainly extends no farther than this, viz. 
" that all men have a right — that is, an order from God — to 
preserve their own limbs, and enjoy the fruits of their own 
labor — so far as they have the power to do so. 

Mr. Paine's Bights of Man is a book full of strong and acute 
reasoning. But it all crumbles to pieces like a house of cards, 
since it is deduced out of false premises. For there are no such 
things as "inalienable rights of man." But if you say there 
are — then I reply, " show them to me \ n 

Every man has a right — that is, an order of nature — to all he 
can get. And if you ask me my authority for asserting that 
such a law exists, I do not attempt to mystify you by any 
hocus-pocus of words — but I tell you to open your eyes and 
look, and see the fact, and behold the law everywhere in opera- 
tion. But this law does not lead to robbery and oppression, as 
such thinkers as the Spectator will, I know, be ready enough to 
cry out. Its direct tendency is to the preservation of social 



480 RIGHT. 

order and consent of purpose. For the same law which would 
induce me to satisfy the cravings of my self-love by oppressing 
you, also impels you to resist the aggression. And if you be 
physically weaker then I, than others will make common cause 
with you, and so neutralize my strength. And I, observing 
that from any attempt to oppress you, there could result nothing 
but ultimate defeat and punishment to myself, abstain from the 
attempt. And an overwhelming majority, observing that 
repeated acts of individual oppression, and attempts to resist it, 
would keep the community in constant turmoil, and interfere 
with that unity and consent of purpose necessary to the protec- 
tion and well-being of the whole, so that all would become losers, 
soon took these matters into their own hands, erected them- 
selves (the majority) into a tribunal, and made certain laws and 
regulations by which to determine all disputes. And the supe- 
rior strength of the majority is so great as to compel obedience 
from the minority, without trouble and disturbance to the com- 
munity at large. 

And it is the duty of this minority to obey the commands of 
this majority. But this duty is not a duty which this minority 
owes to this majority — but which it owes to itself — in order 
that it may escape the punishment which otherwise the majority 
will inflict upon it. For although it is ordered by nature that 
the few shall yield their interests to the many, yet it is not 
ordered by nature that they shall do so willingly, but only in 
order that their interests may not suffer in a still greater degree 
by the punishment which will follow resistance. 

It is not the few who are ordered by nature to say to the 
many, " we will yield our interests to yours because you are 
many ;" but it is the many who are ordered to say to the few, 
" you shall yield to us your interests because you are weak, and 
we are strong enough to compel you, and punish resistance." 

The law, therefore, which orders every man to get all he can, 
also orders him to get it honestly — that is, according to the laws 
of his community — that is, according to what the majority have 
decided shall be considered honest. And he does this in order 
to avoid punishment, and not from any absurd abstract principle 
of honesty— for there is no such thing. Everything is honest 



RIGHT. 481 

which is lawful. Since, if the law be put out of the question, 
who shall decide as to what is honest and what dishonest ? If 
it be not decided by the opinion of the majority, where is the 
standard by which it shall be determined ? And it must be 
remembered that public opinion, although not a written law, is 
nevertheless a law as stringent, and as capable of avenging its 
own infraction, as the written law itself. All men are honest 
only to avoid punishment, either in the form of disgrace or 
corporal infliction — that is, either from pride or fear. 



EDUCATION. 

B. 

Is it ordered and commanded by nature — that is, is it right 
— that the people should use diligent means to acquire know- 
ledge — that is, to educate themselves ? 

A. 

Look abroad. Can you find any such law ? Can you see it 
in operation ? Can you show it me ? You cannot — for there 
is no such law. You cannot show me even a single instance in 
which the people of any country have educated themselves. 
All human duties, with the exception of the love of offspring, 
are debts which men owe to themselves. Even religion is a duty 
which men owe to themselves, for it is the hope of reward which 
makes men religious, and without that hope they would not be 
religious. But education is not a duty which the people owe to 
themselves, for it is not necessary to their happiness. If it 
were, the law of self-love would compel them to seek it. But 
the people (of course I speak collectively, and of the great body) 
never do seek it. The people never educate, nor attempt to 
educate, themselves — nor to civilize themselves — nor to cultivate 
themselves. Why ? Because they do not desire education or 
cultivation. But why do they not desire it ? Because they are 
happy, and perfectly contented without it. Go back to what 
may be called the very source of popular education — the dis- 
covery of the art of printing. Was this discovery the result of 
the combined efforts of a people ? No — it resulted from the 
efforts of a single individual eagerly and intently employed — in 



482 RIGHT. 

what ? — in compassing his own individual and private aggrand- 
isement. Did he not, as long as he could, keep his discovery 
a secret, that his emoluments might be the greater? What 
cared old Faust for mankind ? or whether his discovery would 
turn out a blessing or a curse ? Did he say to himself, when 
he began his invention : " Lo ! I will gird up my loins, and 
concentrate my energies, and bestow a blessing on mankind V 
Not he ! He only said : " Lo ! I will put money in my purse !" 
It was no " instinctive wish to know" which produced the art of 
printing, or any other art or science whatever. There is no 
such thing as an "instinctive wish to know" — but there most 
certainly would have been, had knowledge been necessary to the 
happiness of mankind. Whence proceeded the science of che- 
mistry ? Prom an " instinctive wish to know ?" No — but from 
the instinctive wish of the alchymists to convert lead into gold. 
Look at children — do you observe in them any "instinctive 
wish to know V On the contrary, is it not often necessary to 
drive knowledge into them with a whip ? Are children natu- 
rally fond of school ? If an " instinctive wish to know" were a 
part of man's nature, all children would cry to be sent to school 
as universally and surely as they now cry for food. 

All the arts and sciences are cultivated — all knowledge is 
sought — with one sole aim — and that one aim is — like old 
Faust's and the alchymists' — to put money in the purse — with 
the few solitary exceptions of here and there a man who, having 
already money enough, and being in want of something to do, 
has sought amusement in study, and reputation in learning. 

At this very moment while I am writing the words, know- 
ledge of every sort, both of the arts and sciences, from that of 
the astronomer royal down through all its grades to the very 
cutter of corners, is as unquestionably a matter of trade — a 
matter of money-getting — a matter of livelihood — as the art of 
the shoemaker or tallow chandler. 

It was soon discovered by the shrewd few that knowledge is 
power — and not only power, but profit too. Then it was that 
this strong-headed few began to seize upon the facilities which 
printing offered them to acquire knowledge, in order that, through 
it, they might arrive at wealth, power, and distinction. These 



EIGHT. 483 

were the prizes all had in view, and these were the prizes which 
many obtained. 

Up rose then another set of men — well-meaning, but weak — 
weak as water — calling themselves instructors of the people, 
friends of the poor, intellectual benefactors of mankind. And 
these men, too shallow to look beneath the surface of things, 
and not perceiving that knowledge is power only while it is 
scarce, and that, like money, it loses its value, in proportion as 
it becomes plentiful — these men began to exclaim, in the hearing 
of the people : "has not God given the same mental faculties to 
the poor as to the rich ? Has he not given to all men an 
intellect in order to distinguish them from the brutes of the 
field ? and would he have done so had he not intended it to be 
cultivated and made fruitful V The ninnies ! They might as 
well exclaim that, since the pockets of the poor men are as 
large as the pockets of the rich, that, therefore, they ought to be 
as well filled. Or that, since the rich man has as many legs 
and arms as the poor man, he ought, therefore, to work as hard. 
They forget that, if every man's house were filled with gold, 
every man would be as poor as the half-naked barbarian. 

These men, however, set up the cry for universal education, 
and fancied they were conferring a signal favor on the people. 
They claimed it for them as their right — knowing no more, all 
the time, what they meant by the word right, than the man in 
the moon knows of the man in the iron mask. And the people 
themselves, hearing these men claiming for them, as their right, 
something or other which was to ennoble their nature, and 
convert hedgers and ditchers into Newtons and Herschels, 
naturally enough joined in the cry. M 

Then there arose a third set of men who, perceiving that the 
people had been played upon, and spirited into the belief that 
none were their friends but those who joined the cry for educa- 
tion, added their voices to swell the shout — for the sole purpose 
of currying favor with the people and the educationists — as a 
means of lifting themselves into power and place. Up sprung 
then, like mushrooms, literary institutions for the poor, under 
the patronage of great names, all over the country ; and cheap 
publications fell everywhere in showers upon the heads of the 



484 RIGHT. 

people. And invitations and exhortations to the poor to read ! 
read ! read ! rang through the air, morning, noon, and night, 
like the Muezzin's call to prayer, from the tops of their gilded 
minarets. 

No, my friend— it is not that the people bear within them 
any natural desire to know— nor that they feel knowledge to be 
necessary to their happiness. If they did they would require no 
urging to prosecute it. But it is that others — actuated by the 
law of their own self-love — some obeying the genuine law — some 
a disturbed law — that is to say, some from purely selfish 
motives — others from infatuation and fanaticism — have thrust it 
down the people's throats, coaxing and urging them to swallow 
it, with the assurance that it is physic which will do them 
good — forgetting that too much physic, or physic of any kind 
when not necessary, is but another name for poison. Why, I 
should be glad to know- — why should not knowledge, like money 
or any other good, fancied or real, be left to every man to 
acquire as he best can by his own exertions — and to be sought 
only by those who desire to possess it ? Why all this coaxing, 
and urging, and flattering, and persuasion ? 

To seek knowledge, then, is not a duty which the people owe 
to themselves, since it does not contribute one iota to their 
happiness. And they have no right to seek it, for there is no 
law of nature which orders them to do so — any more, at least, 
than it is the right — the duty of the great body of the people to 
be all shoemakers, or all tailors — for knowledge and shoemaking 
are but different means of supplying the wants of the body. As 
to intellectual wants — I have long since shown that there are 
no such things in rerum natura. 

Men can no more be all rich in knowledge than they can be 
rich in money— nor would they be a jot the happier if they 
could. Knowledge can no more bestow happiness than wealth 
can — and wealth proverbially has no such power. 

Who is competent to say, and who would believe it if it were 
said, that we are a happier people now than we were five hun- 
dred years ago ? 

B. 

Mr. George Combe has already said so. 



RIGHT. 485 

A. 

True- — but was he competent to say so ? Has he offered a shadow 
of proof ? Not a shadow. He says that man is an improving 
animal, and that men were happier in the feudal ages than in a 
state of barbarism — and now than in the feudal ages. Where 
is the proof of this bold assertion ? Is it to be found in the dis- 
contented murmurs which ring throughout all the land ? In the 
daily increase of disease ? Increase of madness ? Increase of 
suicide ? Increase and enlargement of union work-houses ? 
Mr. Combe's work had an extraordinary sale. Why ? Because 
it gave back to mankind their own prejudices instead of combat- 
ting them, which is the true secret of most popular works. They 
furnish them with new arguments in favor of old fallacies — put 
old arguments in a new light — defend ancient prejudices — assist 
mankind to gull themselves — and the multitude hug the smooth- 
tongued flatterers, and feast delightedly on the honey of their 
breath. Among works professing to be profound, I have seldom 
read a more jejune peiformance than the Constitution of Man. 

When we pity the distresses of others, it has been shrewdly 
and truly observed, that fancy places ourselves, for the time, in 
the situation of the distressed, and the pity we feel is, in fact, 
pity for ourselves. It is thus with us when we pity the condi- 
tion of our rude forefathers. We fancy ourselves, with all our 
modern habits and notions, and acquired sensibilities about us, 
in their situation, and then we pity ourselves for what we know 
we should feel now were we suddenly thrown back into their 
rude habits. 

What does Mr. Combe mean by improvement? If men be 
happy and contented, their condition cannot be improved, let 
it be what it may — since happiness and contentment are the 
ne plus ultra of all human exertion. No mathematical axiom 
can be clearer than this. 

The arguments against any high degree of national cultivation 
and refinement are indeed manifold and overwhelming. First, 
the great mass of the people, almost every hour of whose time, 
and nearly the whole of whose attention, must be devoted to 
labor, can by no possibility ever acquire any great degree of 
actual and real knowledge. A whole life devoted to nothing else 



486 RIGHT. 

is scarcely sufficient for this. All they can do is to learn to read 
the opinions of others. And thus they are laid open to become 
the dupes and the tools of all who are willing to pander, for a 
profit, to their passions and prejudices — and to be made dis- 
contented and unhappy only because they are persuaded to 
believe that they ought to be so. Having no opinion of their 
own, and no knowledge whereon to found one, they are led to 
adopt any opinions from any pretended friend who has tact 
enough to state them plausibly. 

In all essential knowledge the great mass of the 
working people, including the great mass of retail 
traders, are as ignorant now as they were three 
hundred years ago. It is true they no longer believe in 
ghosts and witches, and if they see a man reading algebra, they 
no longer believe that he must necessarily have dealings with 
the devil. But knowledge is still, as ever, in the hands of 
the few. 

The march of intellect, as it regards the masses, is little more 
than an alteration of habits and manners — a little nearer 
approximation, in manners and dress, to the manners and dress 
of gentlemen. But the masses cannot all be gentlemen ! 
Why, then, should they be taught to ape gentlemen in their 
manners and dress ? Let any man of a philosophic mind and 
some general scientific knowledge converse for five minutes with 
a working man — not merely a day-laborer, but any man whose 
life is spent in the daily occupations of trade — and he will soon 
find that, although he has learned to talk fluently enough — 
although he has learned to retail the opinions of others, and to 
support them too by all the current reasoning of the day, 
derived from the cheap literature to which alone he has access ; 
and which, in order that it may sell, must administer to the 
pride, and self-love, and personal prejudices of its readers — he 
will find, if he take him a little deeper than this — if he ask him 
for a reason for his reasoning — if he throw him upon the resources 
of his own mind — he will " bring him up all standing," as the 
sailors say. It is most ridiculously absurd to suppose that 
they who have had to toil from twelve to sixteen hours 
a-day from boyhood, for their bread, can do more than catch 



RIGHT. 487 

the tone and spirit of the opinions of the hour. And it 
is but natural that they should greedily adopt those, right 
or wrong, which come to them glittering with the semblance 
of benefit to themselves, pity for their lot in life, and pre- 
tended anxiety to improve and elevate it. And with the 
opinions come also the specious arguments ready constructed to 
support' them. They have neither the time, nor the inclination, 
nor the power, nor the means to obtain the power, to examine 
these arguments and ascertain their validity — and if they had 
all these, their pride and self-love would be almost certain to 
warp their judgment, and bias their decision. The masses have 
no time to study ! — they can only read ! — and even their 
reading must ever be of the most superficial kind — not con- 
tinuous, but practised at short intervals — and only sufficient to 
keep them in a state of continual excitement— to oppress and 
sour them with a sense of fancied injustice — and make them 
discontented with the lot whereunto it has pleased God to call 
them. The so-called knowledge of the multitude is merely the 
phantom opinion. And this unsubstantial semblance — this 
counterfeit presentment — this false light — this delusive mirage 
— pictured by their pretended friends, and constantly exhibited 
before them, they mistake for the solid realities of true wisdom. 

They catch the shadow from the water, and hug it for the 
substance. 

This aping by the multitude of the manners, habits, and 
dress of the wealthy — this cocking-up of the nose, and snuffing 
of the air, and exclaiming : " we are as good as you ! are we not 
men like yourselves V has done infinite mischief. It has 
caused the wealthy to withdraw themselves more closely within 
the walls of the castles of their own consequence. It has broken 
the link between the rich and the poor. That link is homage. 
As I have before observed, all services are bought and sold, and 
paid for in some coin or other. The only coin in which the 
poor can pay the rich for their succour and support is homage. 
The poor have refused to pay the price, and taunted the others 
with being no better than themselves. And the rich have 
buttoned up their pockets, and shut up their hearts, and retired 
within the circle of their own class. They will no longer mingle 



488 RIGHT. 

with a tenantry, which boasts itself as good as its landlord — nor 
chat familiarly and enter into the private interests of a servant, 
who boasts himself as good as his master, and whose conduct 
and manners prove that he thinks so. 

Men are not angels ! If I observe a man walking by my 
side in the street, and mocking and mowing at me, and imitat- 
ing my gait, and if I bear him calling across the street to 
another, that he is quite as good as myself, in spite of my black 
coat, &c. &c, and if he finally conclude his amusement by 
demanding of me a shilling to buy a dinner, it is something 
more than probable that I should button up my pocket and say, 
"no, my friend." But if he had civilly, and with those 
external semblances of respect which every man's self-love will 
demand under such circumstances, although every man knows 
well enough that they are semblances merely — if he had, as we 
say, made his request properly, assuring me that he was really 
in want — the probability is, that his request would not be 
denied. Your abstract philosophers will say that, notwithstand- 
ing the man's manner, if he be really in distress, I am equally 
bound to succour him. To which I can only reply that, I do 
not feel the bond, and therefore my conduct cannot be coercised 
by it. But I do feel my self-love offended, and therefore my 
conduct is coercised by that. All this is sufficiently well under- 
stood and practised in the more immediate concerns of life. 
When a customer goes into a tradesman's shop, the tradesman 
does not draw himself up, put on his hat, stick his thumbs 
into his sides, and say : " Sir, I am as good as you, though I 
stand behind this counter." But he says, by his respectful 
manner : " Sir, I am obliged to you for your custom." Both 
buyer and seller know very well, that in reality all this is mere 
u leather and prunella" — and that in fact there is no obligation 
on either side. But what then ? Man's pride and self-love will 
have it. Those who have the power to serve will be paid— for 
we serve others to please ourselves, not them, as I have already 
shown. The payment which power demands from weakness is 
homage — a tacit acknowledgment of inferiority — and not a loud- 
tongued claim of perfect equality. The rich know just as well 
as the poor that their superiority is merely adventitious — and if 



RIGHT. 489 

the poor did not offend their self-love by constantly throwing the 

fact in their faces, they themselves would be, on all proper 

occasions, the first to acknowledge it. If weakness would gain 

sympathy from power, weakness must condescend to soothe, and 

lay aside pretension — and not irritate, by a haughty assumption 

of equality. The rich have no more right to serve the poor for 

nothing, than the poor have to labor for the rich for nothing. 

The poor demand money for their services — the rich demand 

homage for theirs. Both are equally at liberty to refuse to pay 

the price demanded — but then they cannot expect the services. 

I repeat it — the great body of the people are j ust as ignorant 

now as they were three hundred years ago — in all essential 

knowledge. By which I mean that philosophical knowledge 

which deals with principles, and the laws and constitution of the 

universe — of course including the laws and constitution of 

human nature. The people, I know, can now construct 

machinery, weave fabrics, and do many things which they could 

not formerly. But herein they do but work at a trade which has 

been taught them, as they did or could have done ages ago. 

The scientific knowledge necessary to the production of these 

new inventions was furnished by a few individuals intently 

labouring to devise the means of their own aggrandisement 

— they did not result from the joint efforts of the great mass of 

an educated people — actuated by that pretended law — " an 

instinctive wish to know \" 

B. 
Nevertheless some very important inventions have proceeded 
from the heads of the working classes, and could never have 
been brought about but for the universal diffusion of knowledge 
which resulted from the art of printing. 

A. 
True — and there would be some force in your objection if you 
could prove that these new inventions have contributed to the 
happiness of mankind. But I hope to show presently that 
they have not done so. I hope to show that knowledge, of 
whatever kind, although it gives power to man, has no power 
itself to give him happiness. But your objection is naught on 
another account. For I am speaking of the great oody generally > 
and not of the clever few exceptions. 2 l 



490 RIGHT. 

Look at the Chinese— a people removed but a step or two 
above barbarism — as compared with us. Are the people of 
England happier than the people of China ? The Chinese are 
said to be the happiest people, as a body, on the face of the 
globe. Look at yon half-naked urchin chasing a butterfly in 
yonder field — exulting, laughing, and shouting, as his rags 
shake in the wind. You may dress him in fine linen, teach him 
to speak by the card, and to enter a room with the grace of a 
Chesterfield. But can you make him happier than he is ? I 
say — no ! You may make him a different, but not a happier, 
being. And it is this difference alone which the world calls 
improvement. 

One argument, therefore, against all efforts to educate the 
people is — that it is impossible. All you can do is to teach 
them to read — and to teach them to read is only to teach them 
to be led by the nose — to be gulled out of the sense of their own 
true interests — and to be discontented with themselves. 

Secondly — and here I speak, not merely of the people, but of 
all seekers after knowledge — the law (if there were any such) 
which commanded man to seek knowledge would flatly con- 
tradict the law of self-preservation. Even those who seek 
knowledge in obedience to the law of self-love, i. e. merely for 
amusement and celebrity, do so in obedience to a disturhed law 
of self-love — for it is a self-love which does not lead to self- 
preservation — but in a contrary direction. It is a self-love 
which defeats its own object — for the object of self-love is self- 
preservation. Study confers a species of happiness it is true. 
But it is a happiness for the sake of happiness merely — and a 
happiness which tends directly to defeat the object of all hap- 
piness. For the object of all pleasure and happiness is to make 
man enjoy life — to make it worth his while to live — to live and 
propagate his species — in order that the end of his creation may 
be fulfilled, and his species endure, and not perish. This is the 
end and aim of all human happiness, and this end and aim the 
pursuit of knowledge has a direct tendency to defeat. 

For it is impossible to deny, that the studious and sedentary 
habits necessary to mental cultivation frequently induce prema- 
ture death, and never fail to prejudice the health both of the 



RIGHT. 491 

student and his offspring— who, even in their infancy, are 
already " sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought" — a " pale 
cast" conferred on them by the thought and thoughtful habits of 
their sickly parents. 

Had the pursuit of knowledge formed any part of the law of 
man's nature, are we not compelled to believe, from all that we 
see of nature's works, that he would have been so constituted as 
to derive health and strength, and not sickness and death, from 
obedience to that law? In deprecating any particular habit, 
such for instance as spirit- drinking, gormandizing, &c, is it not 
considered a sufficient reason that it injures our health? And if the 
pursuit of knowledge injures the health of the pursuers, why 
should not that consideration alone be deemed a sufficient reason 
for deprecating the pursuit, as well in this as in every other 
instance ?. The fact that the pursuit of knowledge is injurious 
to the health and strength of the pursuers, and dangerous to 
life, is as clear a proof that it is an unlawful pursuit — as clearly 
a divine command that " man shall not pursue knowledge^ — as 
though the visible finger of God were seen writing it daily 
on the disc of the sun. 

The law, therefore, (were there any such) which commands 
men to pursue knowledge is directly opposed to that other law, 
the law of self-preservation, which commands every man to 
preserve, with all possible care, his health and strength — and 
obedience to both is impossible. But it is too monstrous to 
conceive that Infinite Wisdom can have issued laws which it is 
impossible to obey. But the law of self-preservation no man 
can doubt to be a law of nature ? What follows ? Why, that 
the pursuit of knowledge is not a command of nature — that it 
cannot be prosecuted without a breach of a law of nature, viz. 
that of self-preservation — and that, therefore, it is, in the sight 
of the God of nature, an unlawful pursuit — having a tendency 
to frustrate the ends of his own laws. 

Thirdly, a highly educated condition of society is a column 
with vice and crime for its foundation-stone, and premature 
death and disease for its crowning capital. I say that vice and 
crime form the very foundation whereon the structure of society 
in every cultivated community is erected — and that they cannot 

2 l 2 



492 RIGHT. 

be removed without the immediate overthrow and total disor- 
ganization of the entire fabric. I say that vice and crime are 
absolutely necessary to high cultivation — that if the condition of 
society as it now exists be desirable, then vice and crime are of 
necessity also desirable — and that they who offer up their 
daily prayers for the total annihilation of vice and crime, know 
not what they ask. 

Let us suppose their prayers granted. Let us suppose that, 
by the interposition of a miracle, vice and crime were at once 
annihilated, and that to-morrow morning every man, woman, 
and child were destined to rise from their beds all perfectly 
honest and good. Millions of human beings must soon perish of 
starvation, or subsist on charity. 

I am not sufficiently conversant with the various trades and 
callings to enumerate to you all those which are supported, 
directly or indirectly, by vice and crime ; and which must, 
therefore, on the cessation of vice and crime, cease to give 
support to men. But I will mention a few instances — sufficient 
to give your mind the right clue — and then leave you to follow 
out that clue in all its multiplied ramifications. 

The first class of men who would be instantly thrown out of 
employment, would be that in some way or other dependent on 
the law — an immense class, consisting of judges, barristers, 
attorneys, solicitors, bailiffs, turnkeys, law booksellers, law pub- 
lishers, parchment manufacturers, engrossers, law stationers, law 
printers, and all the nine farrow of that sow. For each of the 
barristers, attorneys, and solicitors, must be allowed two servants 
and one clerk, supported by them. Here then is a number of 
human beings amounting to four times the number of all the 
lawyers in the kingdom, besides the other persons more remotely 
connected with the law, which I have just mentioned, who would 
be instantly thrown upon the various parishes of the country, 
compelled to starve or beg for a livelihood. 

Another immense class would consist of locksmiths and their 
servants. Their vocation would be gone too. Locks would be 
utterly useless, and the locksmiths and their servants, too, must 
beg or starve. Then come the makers of bolts and bars, and 
other contrivances against theft, with their servants. The whole 



RIGHT. 493 

body of policemen and thief-takers would also no longer be 
required. The army would instantly be disbanded,, and the 
soldiers distributed, with the policemen and the others, all over 
the country in search of food. Her Majesty's sailors and ship- 
builders, and dock-yard-men, must also go to swell the number. 
To these must be added the military gun-makers, sword-makers, 
military tailors, cannon founders, and gunpowder manufacturers. 
Two-thirds of the great body of medical men (with their ser- 
vants) would be unable to subsist by their profession ; and the 
whole body of clergymen (with their servants) would be instantly 
extinct. Another large class would consist of prostitutes, thieves, 
brothel keepers, and a countless host of the keepers of low pub- 
lic-houses and places of vicious resort. 

All those persons, now destined to die a premature death from 
intemperance, would live and must find food. The newspapers, 
too, in town and country, with an immense multitude supported 
by them, would be nearly if not altogether extinct. For when 
you have taken from any paper all its police reports, its parlia- 
mentary debates, (for there would then be clearly little or no 
debating, and indeed no House of Commons or Peers at all) its 
histories of murders, of robberies, of suicides — its trials of 
criminals, of minor offenders, &c. &c, how much of the paper 
would be left ? Certainly not enough to pay for its publication. 
This countless multitude, having become destitute of the means 
of living would no longer be able, by their custom, to contribute 
towards the livelihood of various tradesmen, coach-builders, 
tailors, linen drapers, boot-makers, harness-makers, whip-makers, 
silk-mercers, jewellers, pastry-cooks, wine merchants, lamp- 
makers, carpet-weavers, cabinet-makers, cum multis aliis. And 
thus another numerous body of men would be thrown out of 
employment. A little reflection will also prove to you that it 
must put an almost entire stop to the cultivation of the sciences, 
by removing most of the inducements to study. Now, I ask 
you, how are these people to live ? You will be ready to say, 
perhaps, that they must seek other employment. Other employ- 
ment ! How? where? There is not sufficient employment for 
the hands which are already idle, is there? At present, this 
immense multitude of men, at least a large portion of it, are 



494 RIGHT. 

themselves employers, and still there is not employment 
enough. When you have not only subtracted this large num- 
ber from the number of employers, but added it to the number 
of those who want employment, how in the name of common 
arithmetic, with a diminished number of employers and a 
hundred-fold augmented demand for employment, is employ- 
ment to be found ? It is manifestly impossible. The whole 
order of society must instantly be broken up, and an equal 
distribution of all property made amongst the whole — or fa- 
mished multitudes must perish, and the streets, way-sides, and 
hedge-rows, be thickly strown with the dying and the dead — 
starved victims to the abolition of vice and crime. This is not 
a fanciful picture. Talk the matter over with yourself, and you 
will find it the sober truth. 

This rude sketch will be sufficient to open your eyes to the 
effect of the abolition of vice and crime, although I have not 
enumerated one half of the classes of men who would be 
rendered destitute by the advent of the reign of Innocence. 

An entire freedom from vice and crime is a condition wholly 
incompatible with a state of high cultivation. If we would 
erect the one, we must take the other for its foundation. It 
would be easy to show that it is impossible for men, living in a 
state of perfect innocence, to arrive at any high degree of 
cultivated, educated, refinement.* 

Fourthly — and here I address myself to those who may be 
styled, emphatically, religious persons — there is no scripture 
warrant for the pursuit of "worldly," or, as it is sometimes 
called, " carnal knowledge," or " wisdom of the flesh." On the 
contrary, worldly knowledge is almost everywhere deprecated. 
"Faith," we are told, "conieth by hearing"- — not by reading. 
We nowhere find Christ inculcating the study of the sciences on 
his disciples, nor any other kind of worldly knowledge, mathe- 
matical, chemical, or mechanicah 

"Knowledge puffeth up," 1 Cor. viii. 1. 



* I am indebted for this view of the effect of the abolition of vice and 
crime to a gentleman who is, I believe, about to publish a work, treating the 
matter more elaborately, and at large. 



RIGHT. 495 

" A prudent man concealeth 55 (not spreadeth) "knowledge/ 5 
Prov. xii. 23. 

"He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow/ 5 Eccl. 
i. 18. 

"Every man is brutish by knowledge/ 5 says Jeremiah, 
speaking of the people of Babylon, chap. li. 17. 

And what was the Divine injunction to Adam that he should 
not eat of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil 
— "for on the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die 55 
—what was this but a caution to mankind, that so long as they 
continued to live a life of primitive simplicity, satisfied to render 
implicit obedience to the laws of their nature, and did not 
presume to improve their condition according to any visionary 
schemes of their own, they should enjoy the highest degree of 
happiness which is compatible with their condition — but that, if 
they presumed to substitute their own opinion as to what is 
meet and proper for their wants, in the room of the judgment 
of their Creator, as evinced in the laws of man's nature and 
condition — if they presumed to quarrel with their own state — 
to say, "this would be better and that would be better, and this 
would be an improvement, and that would be an improvement, 
in our condition — this is evil and that is evil — this is good and 
that is good — and these are the habits and manners of brutes, 
and therefore beneath the dignity of man's intellectual 
nature — let us, -then, spurn it ! — let us elevate ourselves in the 
scale of nature 55 — in a word, if they presumed to make artificial 
distinctions of their own between good and evil — distinctions 
having no existence in nature — existing only in the habits, 
manners, and opinions, of particular classes of men — that they 
should lose the happiness placed within their reach, and entail 
upon themselves precisely what we see they have entailed upon 
themselves — -disease, misery, and premature death ? 

The spread of education among the multitude is every way 
hostile to religion. It teaches them to substitute reason instead 
of faith — it teaches them to make a bad use of the unfortunate 
squabbles about creeds, and nice distinctions — it teaches them to 
say : " how are we to know which of all these disputants is 
right, and whom we are to follow in order to be saved ? 55 " Can 



496 RIGHT. 

the Bible really be so obscure a book that the most learned 
cannot comprehend it ? How then are we, the unlearned, to 
understand it ?" 

The ministers of religion are nowhere taught to educate the 
people, but to preach the gospel to them ! 

" Nothing can be more unfounded," says J. F. W. Herschel, 
" than the objection which has been taken, in limine, by persons, 
well-meaning perhaps, certainly narrow-minded, against the 
study of natural philosophy, and indeed against all science— 
that it fosters, in its cultivators, an undue and overweening self- 
conceit, leads them to doubt the immortality of the soul, and to 
scoff at revealed religion. Its natural effect, we may confidently 
assert, on every well-constituted mind is and must be the direct 
contrary." 

But are the minds of the great mass of the multitude well 
constituted? Is the multitude more prone to reason correctly or 
incorrectly ? 

But, like all men who undertake to advocate a false position, 
Mr. Herschel very soon falls into the trap of self-contradiction. 
He contradicts his own position in the very next page. He there 
says : " the character of the true philosopher is to hope all 
things not impossible, and to believe all things not un- 
reasonable." Now there is no creed on the face of the earth 
which does not contain articles of faith which are both impossible 
and unreasonable — according to the judgment of human reason. 
And it must be remembered that our reason is the only means 
by which man can decide as to what is possible or impossible, 
reasonable or unreasonable. If our reason be rejected as a 
guide to the decision between possibilities and impossibilities, 
then all things, at once, however monstrous, become possible 
and reasonable. The christian doctrine of the Holy Trinity, as 
far as mere human reason can go, is both impossible and 
unreasonable — and miracles would not be miracles if they were 
in accordance with the experience of human reason. It is their 
being opposed to reason, which constitutes them miracles. 

According to Mr. Herschel, therefore, the "true philosopher" 
must reject these doctrines ! What, then, are the half-educated 
and superficial philosophers of the multitude likely to do ? 



RIGHT. 497 

The true philosopher, even if he be not himself emphatically 
a religious man, will nevertheless support religion with all his 
energies, if it be only as a means of keeping the multitude in 
awe — in peace and good order — and as a means of cementing 
the bonds of social government. But on the multitude them- 
selves — the party to be awed into peace and quiet — the effect 
would be just the contrary — viz. to induce them to throw off all 
restraint. 

The reading multitude have already discovered that certain 
portions of the Bible have been decided, by human reason, not 
to be sacred — the book of Enoch, for instance, part, if not the 
whole— the Apocrypha — Ecclesiastes — the book of Job, &c. I be- 
lieve these, or most of these, have been admitted by the teachers 
of religion themselves not to belong to the word of God. And 
the celebrated Dr. Parr, whose name it is sufficient to mention, 
declared his belief that the entire Book of Revelation was not of 
sacred origin — and its author not of sound mind. Is it for the 
interests of religion that the multitude should read, and talk, 
and reason on such things ? Can they reason about them 
without having their religious faith shaken ? If faith in the 
word of God be necessary to salvation, that faith is not lessened, 
nor rendered less efficacious, although the book, containing the 
word of God, may happen to contain other matters not properly 
belonging to it, and although these latter may be mistaken for 
a part of his word. Faith in these latter does no injury, as it 
seems to me, to faith in the former. When the multitude read 
of these things they are apt to say — for I have heard them over 
and over again — " if these portions of the Bible, or if any por- 
tion of it, is to be thus rejected solely on the testimony of human 
reason, then all that portion of it which is left, rests solely on 
the authority of human reason also — for it is left only because 
human reason has decided that it shall be left — and is, therefore, 
only to be held sacred because human reason has decided that it 
shall be held sacred. At this rate, how do I know that, by and 
bye, other portions of the sacred writings shall not also be 
decided by human reason to be not sacred. If this be allowable, 
then it is not on the Bible that I lean for salvation, but on the 
human reason of the biblical commentators ! It is not in the 



498 RIGHT. 

Bible that I believe, but in the commentators — mere human 
reasoning men, like myself. Well, then — since religion is 
certainly not a matter of learning- — but a matter of reasoning 
merely — I will become my own commentator. And I will 
believe only so much of the Bible as I can reconcile with my own 
reason." 

I put it to any unprejudiced man whether this be not the sort 
of argument likely to arise in the minds of a reading people. 
And I put it also, to any man competent to give an opinion, 
whether infidelity be not everywhere on the increase. 

It was but lately that I saw the walls of a large chapel — ■ 
perhaps the largest in London — placarded with bills, like those 
of an auctioneer or quack medicine-vendor, with the words, in 
large black letters, " Christianity versus Infidelity" — and it has 
become the common practice in London to advertise sermons by 
placarding walls, after the manner of blacking-makers and quack- 
doctors. Surely this confounding of the mode of treating sacred 
and religious matters with the mode in which the ordinary 
matters of business are transacted (and that, too, not of the most 
reputable character) has a greater tendency to bring religion into 
contempt, and to reduce it to a mere matter of trade, then any- 
thing that ever was written by such men as Volney or Voltaire. 

If religion could but "save herself from her friends" she 
would have nothing to fear from her enemies. 

Fifthly, knowledge is not happiness, nor necessary to happi- 
ness — nor is ignorance, misery. On the contrary, the evidence 
of our senses proves that happiness is as compatible with igno- 
rance as with knowledge. Happiness is the one thing needful, 
of which all men are in search — the one sole object of all human 
exertion. But men have lost sight of the end in the violence of 
their discussions concerning the means. The question is not, 
How to know? — but, How to be happy? Men cry up knowledge 
as though it were the end of all human existence — whereas, 
happiness being the end, knowledge is but a questionable 
means — questionable, yet never questioned I "Knowledge," say 
they, " is power ." Good — it is power. " Knowledge raises us 
to a greater elevation above brute animals." Good again — it 
does so. " Knowledge is necessary emollire mores — to refine the 



RIGHT. 499 

manners — to distinguish a cultivated people from the mere 
barbarian." True again. "Without knowledge we should be 
living in mere huts, and fed on milk and acorns — which is food 
for hogs." This is not true — but let it pass. And now I ask : 
"What then?" You have entirely begged the question — which 
is not how to win power — how to elevate ourselves above the 
brute — how to soften the manners — how to distinguish ourselves 
from barbarians — nor how to live in fine houses, and feed on 
French fricasees — but how to be happy ! Are fine houses and 
French fricasees necessary to human happiness ? 

It is with knowledge as it is with wine, and spirits, and other 
luxuries. Those who have acquired a taste for them, and can 
afford to buy them, like them so well that they will not believe 
they can be injurious — and pity those who cannot obtain them — 
fancying that they cannot be quite happy without them. It is 
precisely thus with knowledge. And he who teaches the people 
the desire for knowledge, is guilty of the same folly as he who 
should teach them the desire for wine. 

Again — the educated pity and decry ignorance. Why ? 
Because ignorance is incompatible with happiness ? No. But 
because they feel that, having now acquired a taste for letters, 
they would not like to be ignorant themselves — just as a man who 
has acquired a taste for wine would not like to be deprived of 
its use. 

Another reason for the desire to polish the manners of the 
people is, that the educated and refined do not like to live 
surrounded by persons of rude and coarse manners. It is 
painful to them. So they set about endeavouring emollire 
mores — to soften and chasten their manners. But herein it is 
quite plain that they are consulting their own pleasure, and not 
the happiness of the people. 

It is painful to the highly educated and delicately nurtured to 
see, and even to read of, rude persons breaking each other's 
heads at a fair. So they forthwith determine to abolish fairs, 
that no more heads may be broken. But herein it is merely 
their own morbid delicacy of feeling which they are consulting — 
and not the happiness of those persons. Every man must be 
happy after his own manners, habits and tastes. But these 



500 RIGHT. 

improvers of human nature say, " No — you shall be happy after 
our manners, habits and tastes— not your own. It is painful 
and disgusting to us to hear of these doings. Therefore you 
must not do so any more — in order that we may be no more 
pained and disgusted. You must sit at home, and read the 
Penny Magazine — or walk about the fields, arm and arm, staidly, 
soberly, and contemplatively — and then we shall take great 
pleasure in looking at you." " But we don't like all this," say 
the people. " Never mind," say their teachers, " we do — and 
that's enough." "We have no taste for flowers," say the 
people. " Never mind," reply the others, " if you will only set 
about studying botany, it is quite wonderful what a pleasure you 
will take in examining daisies, and gathering butter-cups. You 
will find it much better then breaking each other's heads — and 
besides, we shall no longer be annoyed and disgusted with the 
horrid accounts of your rude frolics and pastimes. 

It is curious to observe how ingeniously men deceive them- 
selves as to the motives of their own actions. 

Sixthly, the diffusion of knowledge is the true cause of a 
surplus population — which is the true cause of most of our 
political difficulties. And this brings me to 



POLITICAL MATHEMATICS. 

" Labor," says Adam Smith, " constitutes the wealth of 
nations." True. But does it constitute the health of nations? 
or the happiness of nations ? Wine, spirit, and opium, con- 
stitute the wealth of those who deal in them. But do they 
constitute the health and happiness of those who use them ? 
Lead mines and quicksilver mines constitute the wealth of their 
possessors — and also the wealth of those who work them — for 
their labor is their only wealth. But does it constitute their 
health and happiness — I mean of those who are condemned to 
work in these poisonous mines ? Needle-pointing constitutes 
the wealth (at least in part) of needle-manufacturers. But does 
it constitute the health of the working needle- pointer ? The 



RIGHT. 501 

average duration of a needle-pointer's life is, I am told, about 
twenty-five or thirty years. 

B. 

Still, if it were not for these means of obtaining a livelihood, 
(pernicious and miserable though it be) those who thus obtain 
it would not be able to procure any livelihood at all. 

A. 

And would not need it — for they would never have been 
born. 

It is a fundamental error in legislation that we legislate 
for wealth, and what are called the comforts of life, instead of 
being content to legislate for happiness and the necessaries of 
life only. What are called the comforts of life are not necessary 
to happiness. Nothing is necessary to happiness but what nature 
has made necessary to health and strength. And we have lost 
happiness and contentment by attempting to be more than happy 
and contented. 

The house and appurtenances of an ordinary tradesman of 
the present day, is a more luxurious abode than was the dwelling 
of the wealthiest noble some few hundreds of years ago. Is the 
noble happier now than he was then ? or the tradesman either ? 
—although both have, what is absurdly called, so much improved 
their condition. But how is that condition improved if it be not 
happier ? But the truth is this. Certain small luxuries called 
comforts, have, from long use, become, to the upper and 
middling classes, indispensable necessaries to happiness. 
Forgetting that they have become necessaries only from use and 
wont, and are not really so, they have come to believe them 
necessaries to the happiness of all, and look with pity upon 
those who are without them — and have made insane attempts to 
bring them within the reach of all. The first effect has been to 
make these little luxuries be considered as necessary to respecta- 
bility — that is, in the eye of public opinion, not reason. The 
second effect has been to send mankind racing after these fancied 
necessaries to respectability till tbeir sinews crack, their health 
breaks down, and till they may be seen dropping by thousands 
into a premature grave — having lost life and all its real enjoy- 
ments literally in chasing a phantom, which, when caught, 



502 RIGHT. 

universal experience proves to be a phantom still. For it is no 
sooner caught then it vanishes — and is again seen in the 
distance, still afar off, and still beckoning onward, and exciting- 
its dupes to a renewed chase. And what are these necessaries to 
respectability ? In millions of instances they consist of little 
more than a satin stock and a black coat — and in millions more, 
in a satin stock and a black coat — on a Sunday only. Every 
man is toiling to elevate himself above his condition — while 
the intellectual pedagogues stand by, clapping their hands, and 
shouting in the ears of all, " rush on ! rush on ! elevate ! 
elevate yourselves ! elevate both mind and body W And on 
they go, madly straining up the ladder on one side, only, in 
nineteen cases out of twenty, to tumble down, with broken legs 
or broken necks, on the other. And thus the various classes of 
men, like the waves of the ocean-tide, are perpetually hurrying 
after each other in a forward and a backward course — gaining 
nothing, yet still hurrying on — the bird for ever in the bush, 
and never in the hand— both waves and men obeying the same 
influence — the one lunar, the other lunatic. Of all that multi- 
tude who listen to the cry, " rush on ! rush on V there is not 
one who stops to inquire, wherefore ? Nor of all that multi- 
tude of human improvers, who raise the cry, is there one who 
could answer that simple question were it put to him. 

The mischief is this — that we cannot conceive how it is 
possible for men to be happy unless they be so after our own 
fashion ! May not the rudest country bumpkin that ever lived 
be as happy as the most accomplished gentleman ? May not 
the untutored savage be as happy as any other man under the 
sun ? May not a beggar, in his rags, with plenty of food, be as 
happy as a king ? No man living can deny this— without 
denying that which has become a proverb in all civilized countries. 
What is meant, therefore, by improving their condition ? There 
is no other reason than that we, who have been accustomed to 
other things, which our foolish vanity prompts us to call 
better things, cannot believe it possible that these persons 
should be happy, because they are not happy after our own 
manner. 

There is no condition of life, possessing health, strength, 



RIGHT. 503 

freedom, and food, which is not capable of affording as much 
happiness as any other condition. And it is because legislators 
have attempted to bestow on the multitude more than health, 
strength, freedom, and food, that so many have been, and are, 
deprived of all four — that one half of mankind are born only to 
die in infancy — that one third of the remainder are doomed to 
perish in early manhood — and two thirds of the remnant to toil 
through life, yoked to the loom and to the mill, to the shop and 
to the anvil, from morning till night, pale, haggard, diseased, 
crippled, and dwarfed, the slaves — the miserable victims and 
slaves — to a cultivation of knowledge which has dotted the 
country all over with towns, and studded the towns with manu- 
factories, which are at once hot-houses and pest-houses — hot- 
houses, inasmuch as they force the multiplication of human 
beings until they swarm like locusts — and pest-houses, foras- 
much as the beings whom they call into existence, such of them 
as do not perish miserably in infancy, must drag on, to the end, 
a life of over-tasked and unremitting exertion, which they seek 
to support by the stimulus of exciting drink, which, in its turn, 
saps the health, and withers the strength of those who seek its 
aid, and fills alike both hospital and hovel with death and 
disease in every variety of form. 

I have already, more than once, adverted to a certain 
compensating principle or self-adjusting power — by means of 
which nature seeks to accomplish her ends, in spite of all 
accidental disturbances. Thus, if a man dislocate his thigh- 
bone out of the socket of the hip-joint, and it be not set, nature 
soon establishes a new bony socket, around the head of the 
thigh-bone, in its new position, and the man, though lame, still 
preserves a very useful limb. The study of surgery and 
physiology offers numerous and beautiful instances of this 
compensating principle — and so indeed does the study of nature 
everywhere. And what, I should like to know, are the number- 
less diseases, suicides, accidental deaths, deaths by crime and for 
crime, deaths in infancy, deaths in early manhood, premature 
deaths of every kind (I mean of course those which could not 
occur in a primitive state of society — and the number of those 
diseases and premature deaths which can occur in a primitive 



504 RIGHT. 

state are as nothing when compared with the number of those 
resulting more or less directly from an improved? condition) — 
what, I say, are all these but so many instances of that power 
by which nature seeks to compensate herself for having been 
forced aside from her predetermined straight path, and by which 
she avenges herself on the disturbers of her laws. 

Had it not been for this compensating and self-adjusting 
principle — had it not been that one half of civilized mankind 
perish in infancy — had it not been for the multiplication of 
diseases, and accidental, and otherwise premature deaths — had it 
not been for vice and crime which sweep men by thousands 
daily from the earth — had the pursuit of knowledge begun a 
thousand years earlier, and had its progress been as rapid and 
universal as its lovers and propagators desired, what had, at this 
moment, been the condition of man ? Figures will demonstrate 
that the surface of the earth could not have yielded food suffi- 
cient for its inhabitants. In this United Kingdom alone we are 
now increasing at the rate of 400,000 every year — and the 
increase, be it remembered, is every day an increasing increase. 
What would have been now the yearly increase had the advance 
of knowledge, and the consequent erection and multiplication of 
towns and manufactories, made the population of the kingdom, 
five hundred years ago, what it is at this moment ? And what 
would have been the population of the world now, had knowledge, 
and, consequently, towns and manufactories, and consequently 
the amount of population, been, five hundred years ago, all over 
the earth's surface what it is now in England ? — especially had 
there been no compensation made in the shape of disease and 
premature death. 

It is the effect of knowledge and the search after knowledge 
to withdraw men from the fields, and field-sports, and agri- 
cultural, and all rural pursuits, and to congregate them in 
towns — some that they may conduct their intellectual pursuits 
with greater facility, and a more remunerating advantage to 
themselves — some that they may surround themselves with 
pleasures and refinements, after which education and a morbid 
and artificial taste have made them yearn, and that they may 
avoid mingling with those with whose manners and habits the 



RIGHT. 505 

same morbid tastes have made them disgusted — some that they 
may take advantage of the discoveries of scientific men, turn 
them to advantage, erect manufactories, apply them to practical 
purposes, and so enrich themselves, and acquire new tastes for 
new luxuries, afterwards, from habit, destined to become neces- 
saries, both to themselves and offspring; and the loss of which is 
also destined afterwards frequently to become a source of misery 
to themselves and others — and lastly, other some, tempted by the 
offer of higher wages, and rendered dissatisfied with their own 
condition by the rumours which reach them of the wealth and 
grandeur and rare doings in the cities and towns, also rush 
thither in the hope of becoming sharers in the manna which 
they fancy is perpetually falling in these wildernesses of bricks 
and mortar. And it is this very congregating of men together 
in towns — ay, and the very supplying them with abundance of 
food, and surrounding them with abundance of comforts, which 
are the true sources of excessive population, and which cause so 
many human beings to be born only to be wretched awhile, and 
die. 

It is the effect of knowledge, and what are called improve- 
ments in machinery and manufactures, to make one poor man 
rich — to save hvo poor men from starving, and to cause ten to be 
born, to starve, and die, — if not of actual starvation, certainly of 
excessive labor, and consequent disease. 

Even if the increase of manufactures could keep pace, in the 
supply of food, with the increase of population — even then they 
would be a great human evil. For without adding aught to the 
happiness of those whom they enrich, they fill the world with 
vice, disease, and crime, and doom the masses of mankind to a 
species of such excessive, unremitting, and murderous toil, as to 
make life a misery. Unlike the labor allotted to men by nature, 
(the cultivation of the soil) the labor of the factory is incompatible 
with his health and strength. The one improves both — the 
other ruins both. Can the voice of nature speak more plainly 
than in language such as this ? 

To legislate for the increase of knowledge is to legislate for 
more than the necessaries of life — and to legislate for more than 
the necessaries of life is to legislate for an unlimited population 

2 M 



506 RIGHT, 

— and to legislate for an unlimited population is to legislate for 
an unlimited number of mouths to be fed by a limited quantity of 
food — to destroy the necessary relation of proportion between 
the production of men and the production of food — between the 
extent of a country and the number of its inhabitants — between 
the extent of the globe and its productive powers, and the 
numerical extent of its population — and involves one of two 
necessities — either that the people shall become so numerous as 
to devour each other for want of better food, or that nature shall 
remedy the evil by some compensating remedy— some tremen- 
dous pestilence, or some second convulsion of the earth. 

To legislate for knowledge and wealth is to legislate for the 
few at the expense of the many— and that too without adding 
an iota to the happiness either of the few or of the many. But 
happiness is the sole one thing needful of which all men are in 
pursuit. Such legislation, therefore, involves an absurdity and 
a contradiction. 

To legislate for knowledge and wealth, too, as a means of 
happiness, is to legislate for that which nature has declared shall 
not happen — for nothing is a more universally observed fact than 
that wealth cannot produce happiness. As a means of account- 
ing for the unwearied pursuit of wealth, although universal 
experience proves that it does not lead to happiness, we are told 
that human happiness consists in the pursuit, and not in the 
possession, of happiness — or, in other words, that happiness 
consists in a series of disappointments. Pitiful delusion ! The 
feeling here spoken of is not happiness, but a continued un- 
natural excitement, like that of drinking, and ending, like 
habitual intoxication, always in disease, more or less destructive 
of health, and often — oh ! how often — in premature death. 
Human happiness consists in contentment. For he who is 
contented, however poor, has all that he desires — -and the very 
wealthiest can have no more — and he who gives him new desires 
only gives him additional chances of disappointment. And all 
healthy human pleasures consist in the gratification of healthy 
and useful appetites and passions — and no man can increase 
these, either in number or intensity, without incurring a 
compensating infliction of pain or disease. 



RIGHT. 507 

. It must be supposed to be a law of nature that the inhabitants 
of the earth shall be apportioned to the extent of its surface — 
otherwise you convict her of a blunder which not even human 
wisdom could commit. 

He who legislates for an unlimited population, manifestly 
legislates in the very teeth of this law. 

But every sound and efficient law, whether political or moral, 
must be in accordance with, and based upon, the laws of nature. 
For nature is stronger than man, and will ultimately have her 
own way; and will, moreover, and always does, punish those 
who oppose her course. 

A limited supply of food — difficultly procurable by healthy ex- 
ertion — an extremely limited number of wants — a scattered popu- 
lation — a few diseases incidental to climate, &c. — a few premature 
deaths from the petty and desultory warfare of man in his 
primitive condition — are nature's great " preventive checks," by 
which, as with other animals, she apportions the number of its 
inhabitants to the productive powers of the earth's surface. 

Theke can be no such thing as equality among men — 
for nature has made them unequal. The strong of limb and the 
strong of mind will always make the rest, in some way or other, 
contribute to the gratification of their self-love. But legislation 
for knowledge gives an unnatural intensity to this law of nature 
— giving an undue degree to this natural superiority — puts 
a new instrument into the hands of the few wherewith still 
further to enslave the many. For, as I have already shown, no 
efficient degree of knowledge can ever be acquired by the many 
— for to acquire knowledge requires leisure — and the many have 
no leisure. 

Thus we see the shrewd and quick-witted few are daily every- 
where enriching themselves and surrounding themselves with 
luxuries, to supply which gives an unhealthy stimulus to manu- 
factures, which congregates men together, and causes them to 
multiply faster than the manufactures can feed them, and thus 
multitudes are born only to become diseased, to starve, and die, 
in order that the knowing few may be surrounded with luxury — 
which, after all, and although purchased at this great expense of 
human suffering, is wholly incapable of adding an iota to the 
real happiness of its possessors. 2m2 



508 RIGHT. 

Physical strength may be equalized by the union of the weak 
against the strong. But the strength of knowledge can be 
equalized by no means whatever. For the knowledge of the 
multitude must always be greatly inferior to that of the few. 

The destruction of human life by accidents alone — the 
accidents, I mean, which result exclusively from the arts and 
sciences, and discoveries of a highly cultivated people — such as 
those which are daily occurring by hundreds and thousands — 
should be sufficient to teach us that we have got into an 
unhealthy and unnatural condition. 

Let us suppose all the highly civilized nations of the earth to 
be one living being — and each individual to be a limb of this 
one animal — and this one animal to be pursuing a particular 
path across the earth's surface. If he found that, at almost 
every step, he broke a leg or was lopped of a limb, which kept 
him in one perpetual state of bodily suffering, don't you think 
it would soon strike him that he must certainly have chosen the 
wrong path ? — and that he would set about retracing his steps, 
and endeavour to find out one along which he might proceed 
without so much injury and constant suffering ? Surely he 
would not think of attempting to remedy the evil by hurrying 
along the same path with redoubled energy and a quicker step ! 
Yet this is precisely what we are doing ! 

Another fundamental error is the absurd notion that the 
king, or (which is the same thing) the government of any country, 
is bound to feed the people. If it be so bound — show me the 
bond. If the people have any such claim — show me whence 
they derived it. If the government owe any such debt, i. e. 
duty, to the people — show me who contracted it. Are the 
people a mere flock of sheep, to be driven from pasture to 
pasture, and fed, now with hay, now with corn, and now with 
turnips and cabbages, by the superintendence of a shepherd 
whose property they are? This is, indeed, debasing man, not 
to the level of the brute merely, but to the level of such stupid 
and helpless brutes as have not wit enough to feed themselves. 
I defy the world to show me the shadow of a proof that any 
government is naturally bound — that is, bound by any law or 
order of nature—that is, by any law of God — to feed the people. 



RIGHT. 509 

But it is vain to talk to me of any abstract right, abstract 
justice, abstract humanity, abstract moral principle, and such 
other unmeaning phrases ; because Lord Brougham and myself 
have long since agreed that Home Tooke's doctrine of no- 
abstraction is so "eminently natural and reasonable" that "all 
men are convinced of its truth" — and if there be no such thing as 
abstraction, then it is mathematically certain that there can be 
no such thing as abstract right, abstract justice, abstract duty, 
or abstract anything else. And, barring this " convenient 
abstraction," as Home Tooke calls it — this refuge for the desti- 
tute of common sense, as I call it — I say, I defy the world to 
show me any proof or understandable reason why the govern- 
ment of any country should be held bound to feed the people. 

Can anything, living or dead, be bound without a bond of 
some kind or other ? 

B. 

No. 

A. 

Can there be any such thing as debt, or duty, or something 
owing, without there being anything for which that debt or 
duty, or something owing, is due ? 

B. 

Of course not. 

A. 

Can there be any right or justice, i. e. order or command, 
without that order or command being audible or visible, or in 
some way or other made recognizable and intelligible, by all 
parties concerned ? 

B. 

Certainly not. But there are, you know, such things as 
moral obligations. 

A. 

To be sure there are. But let us not cajole ourselves with 
any hocus-pocus of words ! The word obligation is only our 
English word bond translated into Latin — and the two words 
therefore signify but one thing — viz. a withy, or cord, or any 
such thing wherewith some other thing is restrained or coerced. 
And the phrase moral obligation, signifies that there is something 



510 RIGHT. 

in the manners and habits of men which restrains their conduct, 
or coerces them to the performance or non-performance of certain 
actions — i. e. which does for man's conduct what the withy or 
cord does to whatever it encircles. It is a figure of speech, 
like moral tie, drawn from the effect which cords or withies have 
in holding things in their proper places, or drawing them in a 
particular direction. If they have not this meaning, then they 
cease to be intelligible words. But as there may be rights, i. e. 
orders and commands which it is wrong to obey — for it is 
frequently wrong to do right, and right to do wrong — so also 
there may be moral obligations by which it is wrong to be 
obliged, compelled, coerced. In order to prove the indisputable 
validity of any right, i. e. order or command, you must show 
me that it proceeds from nature. Otherwise I may dispute it 
— and if I, so may you, and if you and I, so may any other, and 
all other men. So, in order to prove the validity of any moral 
obligation or bond, you must show me that that bond or 
obligation is thrown around us by nature — otherwise it also 
may be disputed and thrown off. And in order to prove to me 
that it is my duty to obey an order or command — or to suffer 
myself to be coerced by any bond, it is first necessary to show 
me both the order and the bond, and then also to show me why 
it is my duty to obey the order, and to be coerced by the bond 
■ — why it is my duty — that is, how I came to owe this debt (of 
obedience) which is said to be due from me? to whom I owe 
it ? and for what ? 

I have already said that the two great duties of man are, one 
which he owes to himself, and one which he owes to his offspring. 
But how comes he to owe these debts ? For what does he owe 
them ? Why is he compelled by nature to pay them ? What 
is their end ? their object ? The answer is plain enough. All 
human duties, as well as brute duties, and even, if I may so 
speak, the duties of stocks and stones, by which I mean the laws 
which govern their existence, are subservient to the one, grand, 
sole duty or debt which is due to the accomplishment of the 
Creator's great design, the preservation of the universe, in all 
essentials, whole and entire, unchanged for ever — or at least, 
unchanged so long as it continues to be governed by the same 



RIGHT. 511 

laws. And the conservation of the universe entire is the 
payment — the return — the that for which the debt or duty 
is owing — the quid pro quo — the something to be gained. But 
how do I know that this is the Creator's design ? Precisely as 
I know, get, gain, or gather, every other fact whatever. I look 
abroad and see that it is so — I am compelled to believe that it 
has been so for thousands of years — and my experience, and the 
experience of all men in all ages, of the operation of nature's 
laws, prove to me that it must continue to be so. I see the fact 
accomplished, and reasoning from effects to causes, I cannot help 
believing that the accomplished fact is a designed or predetermined 
fact. 

But how do I know that all earthly duties, whether of man, 
brute, or of the inorganic kingdom, are instituted with the 
design of accomplishing this fact, or scheme, or purpose of the 
Creator ? Here again, as in every other instance, I know the 
fact, because I see the fact. I look abroad — through the air — 
through the earth — through the ocean— and, as far as human 
ingenuity can carry human observation, through the illimitable 
regions of the planets — and everywhere I see every atom of 
matter, living and dead, busily engaged night and day, in 
bringing about this one great object. And I say that this is 
their object, because I see that this is the object which is 
constantly obtained; and because I can easily trace the steps, 
step by step, which everywhere lead to this object; and because 
I can easily see that this object could not be otherwise obtained, 
as the universe is constituted ; and because I can see that to 
annul all these duties, laws, or rights, would necessarily break 
up all the universe, and that to annul a part of them is to break 
up a part of the universe — and finally, because I can see no 
other object. Not but that there may be other objects far 
removed beyond the reach of human reason. But then human 
reason is all that man has to guide him in all matters of human 
philosophy — and human reason is human experience — and 
therefore human philosophy is human experience also. And 
there clearly can be no human experience, and no human 
reasoning, concerning things which are beyond the reach, and 
out of the sphere, of human experience and reason. Whatever 



51& RIGHT. 

other ultimate object there may be, therefore, we can have 
nothing to do with it, nor can it ever enter into, or have any 
influence over, the affairs of man — at least while he remains a 
habitant of earth. 

All the laws of nature are conservative laws — even the 
very laws which regulate the changes constantly going on in the 
parts are nevertheless conservative of the whole, Even death is 
conservative of life. 

Whenever, therefore, you point to any human duty, or moral 
obligation, call it how you will, you must show me that the 
payment of that duty, or the fulfilment of that obligation, is 
necessary to the conservation of the human species — that 
species of existences being a necessary and predetermined part 
of the whole. If you cannot do this, then where is your 
authority for calling it a duty, debt, or moral bond ? Where is 
the that for which this debt or duty is to be paid ? and who 
or what is the claimant ? And what is the object to be achieved 
or purchased by the payment of this duty ? For I have already 
shown you that all duties — not even excepting religious duties 
— are rendered on the principle of a quid pro quo — a reward — 
a re-payment — a something to be gained. ( ' Blessed is he that 
considereth the poor." Why ? The sacred poet proceeds to 
tell you — "the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble J' 
Psalm xli. 1. 

" He that hath pity unto the poor lendeth unto the Lord ; 
and that which he hath given will he pay him again." 
Prov. xix. 17. 

" Ie thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the 
afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy 
darkness be as the noon-day. And the Lord shall satisfy thee 
continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy 
bones; and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a 
spring of water whose waters fail not." Isaiah lviii. 10, 11. 

B. 

Is there no duty which we owe to feeling ? 

A. 

The duty we owe to feeling is identical with the duty we owe 
to self-love— which teaches us to avoid pain and to seek pleasure. 



RIGHT, 513 

But human feelings are as variable as human opinions— and can 
never, therefore, be made the foundation of a general law which 
is to bind all. 

But while you can show me no earthly reason why the king 
should feel himself bound to feed the people, / can show you 
very sufficient reasons why he should not. In the first place, 
he can't — in the next place, any law which should bind any 
one man, or one dozen or so of men, to take care of the 
interests of several millions of other men, is directly at variance 
with the most stringent, and unmistakeable of all nature's laws, 
which has decreed that every man shall take care of 

HIMSELF. 

It is a human scheme directly opposed to the divine scheme. 
This is one of those human improvements on the divine laws, 
at which man in his madness is not ashamed to attempt. The 
king has nothing to do with the people but to protect them 
from foreign invasion, and he does this in order to preserve his 
own kingly dignity, honors, and powers, and not from any love 
he bears to the people — and to arbitrate between them in cases 
of dispute and personal offences, and he does this that he may 
maintain an authority among them, and have the honor of 
reigning over a well-ordered and respectable people capable of 
defending his throne, and not over a disorderly rabble. And 
the king, in return for these services, exacts from the people a 
certain amount of honors, wealth, privileges, and distinctions, 
enjoyed by no other man. And the people pay him this tribute 
only because they either cannot help it, or because they think it 
more to their interests to pay it, than to involve the kingdom in 
turmoil by resisting it. 

I observe in one of our leading weekly literary papers, dated 
the ninth of the present month (October), the following : " the 
conduct of a nation is but the conduct of a family on a large 
scale."" But this is a fundamental error. For the strong law 
of parental affection enters largely into the motives which 
regulate the conduct of a family. There is no such law existing 
between king and people. 

B. 

What have you to say to moral or political principle. 



514 RIGHT. 

A. 

The first thing I have to say with regard to this and every 
other proposition is, to inquire the meaning of the words 
wherein the statement is made. The word principle is a Latin 
word and signifies the beginning ; and is applied to signify the 
first moving cause in any machinery whether moral or mechani- 
cal — the beginning of motion. Thus the principle of the steam- 
engine is the expansibility of steam, or production of a vacuum, 
or whatever may be considered as the first moving cause or power 
which sets the machinery in motion. Moral principle signifies 
the first cause which sets in motion the conduct of man — 
whether it be political or civil conduct — -and this first moving 
cause is self-love. 

If the word principle have not this meaning, then it ceases to 
be an intelligible word, and cannot be admitted into any process 
of reasoning, unless the reasoner substitute for it some other 
word which has an intelligible meaning. 

But to return. 

I say there is no bond, of any kind, existing between the king 
and people, but the bonds of power on one side, and self- 
interest on both. 

Some centuries ago William the Norman took the kingdom 
from Harold the Dane. So much the worse for Harold the 
Dane — and so much the better for William the Norman. 

William's conduct, in this, was governed by his self-love, and 
he owed its gratification — that is, his success — to that law which 
orders the strong everywhere to rule over the weak. 

The Saxons were oppressed, and the broad lands of England 
were parcelled out among William's Norman followers. So 
much the worse for the Saxons — so much the better for the 
Normans. To the Saxons it was a great evil — to the Normans 
a great good. 

So when the fly, floating in joyous existence over the bright 
surface of the sunny waters, finds himself, on a sudden, passing 
down the throat of the little fish, he thinks his case a hard one. 
The little fish thinks otherwise. To the fly, the case is a hard 
one — to the fish, a pleasant and necessary one. 

Presently, the little fish finds himself swimming through the 



RIGHT. 515 

jaws of the shark. The little fish thinks hk case a hard one — 
the shark thinks otherwise. By and by the shark finds himself 
floundering in the belly of the whale. The shark thinks his 
case a hard one — the whale thinks otherwise. Anon, the whale 
is spouting blood by barrels, transfixed by the harpoons of the 
Greenland fisherman. The whale thinks his case a hard one — 
the fisherman thinks otherwise. Time wears on — the fisherman 
has made a fortune by his whales — he comes to England, buys 
an estate, and sits down to enjoy the rest of his life beneath the 
shadow of his own vine and fig-tree. 

Presently, the fisherman is called upon to fight in defence of 
his house and home. But the foreign invader against whom he 
is called upon to fight, proves the stronger. He conquers the 
country, turns the fisherman adrift, and gives his estate to a 
follower of his own. It is now the fisherman's turn to complain 
— and he, who never thought of the hard case of the whales 
which he slew in order that he might not only live, but enjoy at 
least a portion of his life in luxurious ease, thinks his case a hard 
one. The new proprietor of his estate thinks otherwise. The 
misfortune of the one is the fortune of the other. The estate 
had a proprietor before — it has a proprietor now. It matters 
not one straw to nature which of those two men is the proprietor 
of that estate. She did not give it to this man or to that man. 
She gave it to the strongest man — to him who could win it and 
keep it. Is not every one in the world of those large estates, 
called kingdoms, held, at this moment, on the same tenure ? 
And do you think nature made one law for large estates and 
another for small ones ? No — her laws are all general — not 
particular. Let who will be the proprietor, her machinery goes 
on, all the same, and accomplishes her design. 

Englishmen think they have a right to the soil of England. 
They have only a right to it as long as they can keep it. Had 
Napoleon conquered us at Waterloo, then Frenchmen would 
have thought they had a right to it. And in a century or two 
would have been as much surprised to hear that right disputed 
as Englishmen would be now. But it does not matter a tittle 
to nature whether the soil called England shall be inhabited by 
Englishmen or Frenchmen. Had Napoleon won the battle at 



516 RIGHT. 

Waterloo, and taken possession of this country, his right to it, as 
long as he could keep it, would have been as unquestionable as 
ours at this moment. Ours is the right of conquest and pos- 
session. His would then have been the same— until, in his turn, 
another stronger than he should expel him. 

Man stands at the top of the animal ladder. There are no 
beings above him, to gratify their self-love, and preserve their 
own existence, at his expense. There are none to kill and eat 
him. 

But man himself is divided into numberless classes, each 
stronger than the other, and each having a self-love to be grati- 
fied. And here the same law holds — -the law that superior 
might shall gratify its self-love at the expense of the weaker — 
and the weaker at the expense of the weaker still. 

There is not one law for man, and another for little fishes. 

It is a law of nature that the large fish shall prey upon the 
smaller, and man upon both great and small. But we only 
know this to be a law of nature, because we open our eyes and see 
that it is so. It is also a law of nature that the strong man shall 
gratify his self-love at the expense of the weak one — whether 
that weak one be a man or a fish. And the philosopher knows 
this to be a law of nature for the same reason that he knows the 
other to be a law of nature — viz. because he opens his eyes and 
sees that, everywhere, it is so. The only difference between 
the philosopher and mankind generally, is, that the philosopher's 
eyes are always open — whereas the eyes of mankind are shut, 
the moment anything presents itself which is disagreeable to 
feeling, education, and habit. 

But to return to the Norman William. 

The Saxons, in time, forgot their fancied wrongs — and men 
did then, just what they do now. That is to say, those toiled 
for bread who could not get bread without toil. Those who 
could, enjoyed their leisure as best suited their fancy. And 
those who could not get bread at all (if there were any such) 
were starved and died. These latter were very miserable, as 
starving men always will be. They said then, as they say now, 
that their case, like that of the little fishes, was a very hard one 
—and so it was — -for them. All the others, however, (the great 



RIGHT. 517 

bulk) were happy enough. Not that they did not sometimes 
grumble and growl — for men will always grumble when they 
want what they can't get. But, then, as their wants were very 
few and simple, the chances of disappointment were few also — 
and therefore the grumbling seldom — I mean of the great body. 
It is true, they did not wear black coats — but then they did not 
wish for black coats. They did not use chimneys to their 
houses — but then they did not mind the smoke. They did not 
read books — but then they did not wish to read books. They 
did not understand the arts and sciences — but then they did not 
desire to understand the arts and sciences. They had no 
intellectual gratifications — but then they had no intellectual 
wants. They were unpolished, uncultivated, and ungenteel in 
their manners — but then they did not wish to be polished. 
They were wholly destitute of that multitudinous host of luxuries 
called comforts — but then they did not desire to possess them. 
In short, they only desired to be happy — and they were happy. 
They led a lazy, idle life — a life of carelessness and thoughtless- 
ness — just precisely that sort of life which the fisherman killed 
whales in order to enable himself to lead — and to be able to 
lead which, we are all of us tearing and working the very hearts 
out of our bodies. " They managed these things better" in 
those days. The very swine-herd was a gentleman — not in 
dress — not in manners — not in rank — but in the fact of his 
having little or nothing to do, but to eat, drink, and be merry. 

It is true, there was some rapine in those days, and some 
robbery, amongst even the nobles of the land. These things 
are now chiefly confined to the poor alone, and go by different 
names. 

The highways were infested with thieves, and the solitary 
traveller was almost sure to have either his purse or his throat 
cut. But then there were but few travellers in those days, 
scarcely any but the wealthy, and they travelled with an escort, 
or a safe-conduct. So that highway robbery was anything but 
a lucrative trade after all. 

A man might murder his neighbour and satisfy justice by 
payment of a fine. Horrible ! cry you. True — but then 
people were not strung upon the gallows by the dozen for 



518 RIGHT. 

forgery, as they were here a few years ago. Nor were they 
blown out of the world by hundreds, at a time, by the bursting 
of steam-boat boilers — nor crushed under the wheels of rail- 
road carriages — nor crippled and dwarfed by excessive labor in 
factories — -nor sent out of the world by hundreds of thousands by 
disease — nor driven mad by disappointment and vexation. Nor 
did they cut their own throats, or otherwise destroy themselves, 
at the rate of nearly three thousand every year, as they do now 
in France. They loved life too well in those days. But we — 
the enlightened of the earth — we, who have prosecuted the 
march of intellect so successfully — we, the educated and elevated 
■ — we, I say, have made great improvements in these latter days 
— we scorn to cut the throats of other people, and will not 
suffer other people to cut ours — no — we cut our own throats 
now — at the rate of between two and three thousand every year. 
For we have discovered that it makes a wonderful difference to 
the interests of humanity whether a man cut his own throat or 
have it cut by another. 

Oh yes ! There was plenty of suffering even in those days, 
but not by one-twentieth so much as in these enlightened days 
of ours. 

B. 

But it is said that the evils existing now (most of them) do so, 
because we are not yet refined and cultivated enough. 

A. 

I know this is the assertion of a few perfectionists, with whom 
it is not worth while to reason, because reason is a matter with 
which they never trouble themselves. It is not worth while to 
reason with men whose conclusions are drawn from no premises 
■ — whose arguments are mere assertions ushered in with an "I 
think/' or " I believe/' or u I am certain" — and who, if you ask 
them for a reason for their assertions, will reply with a cc because 
I am certain/' or " because I believe/' or " because I think." 

I have said that faith is as necessary in politics as in religion. 
Let any people believe themselves happy, and that people are 
happy — provided they be as free from actual bodily pain as is 
compatible with man's nature, and the nature of that relation 
which exists between himself and the things wherewith he is 



RIGHT. 519 

surrounded. But the moment they fancy there is something 
withheld from them which they ought to possess, they become 
discontented. Happiness is compatible with every condition 
short of bodily pain. Both barbarian and semi-barbarian are 
happy because they believe they possess all that is necessary to 
their happiness. The misery and dissatisfaction of the masses, 
in a highly cultivated country, arise from their having been 
taught to believe that they have not all that is necessary to 
make man happy — that they might have more if their rulers did 
not withhold it from them. 

B. 

But this is the happiness of brutes merely. 

A. 

Brutes ! my dear Sir, do you never eat potatoes ? 

B. 

Yes — a great many. 

A. 

From this day forth you will never touch another — for I 
know you to be a reasonable man. Let me whisper in your ear 
— potatoes, Sir, are the very food upon which my uncle, the 
farmer, fattens his hogs. But keep this a secret, I pray. For 
if it were known that potatoes are mere food for hogs, what man 
would be so unreasonable as to eat them, or desire the poor to 
do so? 

Well — William the Conqueror took the kingdom by physical 
force, and distributed most of its lands, excepting such portions 
of it as he chose to keep for his own royal amusement of 
hunting, amongst his followers. He also imposed what laws he 
chose upon the people. In all this you observe nothing but the 
exercise of power and self-interest. 

Now I say that, up to the present moment, this same power 
— this right of might — is the only bond which exists between 
any king, potentate, or government whatever, and the people — 
and that you cannot demonstrate to me any other — and there- 
fore cannot, of course, show me any bond, or natural obligation, 
binding kings to feed the people. 

Any one whose eyes are not jaundiced, will perceive that the 
great political struggle which has been for years going on in 



520 RIGHT. 

England, is merely a struggle between the power of knowledge 
and that old-fashioned power called physical. It is merely a 
struggle on the part of new men, lately advanced to wealth and 
station, by the advancement of knowledge, to dispossess those 
whose title to distinction, and to places of great political trust, 
was originally acquired by physical force. The struggle is 
entirely between these — and the interests of the people form no 
part of the motives of that struggle. But, as either party, in 
order to succeed in the contest, must have the assistance of the 
people, the government being elective, it is necessary to conciliate 
the favor of the people. And, in order to do this, each party 
endeavours to convince them that their interests will be best 
served by electing them for their governors and legislators. 
Thus the interests of the people are not the object of the struggle, 
but merely a collateral contingency arising out of it. And, 
de facto, the conservatives, the whigs, and the people, are three 
distinct parties, each intent upon its own interests, and on 
profiting by circumstances. 

Both parties being compelled to appeal to the people -for 
assistance — the conservative says : " let me retain my post of 
honor — I am wealthy and have nothing else to do — and am 
willing to undergo the trouble for the sake of the distinction. 
I will, however, make you no false promises. I cannot make 
you all gentlemen — nor all wealthy — nor all wise. Nor can I 
surround you all with what those who possess them call the 
comforts of life. But this is of little consequence, since none 
of these things are at all necessary to human happiness, 
excepting where a taste for them has been acquired from habit. 

If any among you are desirous and have ingenuity enough to 
earn these little luxuries — let him do so — and enjoy them as he 
pleases. I consider individual education and learning as one of 
these luxuries. If any be desirous of purchasing it, let him do 
so, if he can, by all means. But as I will make no laws to 
compel men, or bribe, or otherwise induce them, against their 
inclination, to acquire any of the luxuries of life — so neither 
will I make laws, or hold out premiums, or resort to any other 
means, for the purpose of compelling, or persuading, or stimu- 
lating men to the acquirement of this one luxury any more than 



RIGHT. 521 

another. If any man feel that he cannot be happy without the 
luxury of a carriage, let him try to earn one. If another feel 
that he cannot be happy without a handsome house, and a 
servant or two to wait upon him, let him get them by all means, 
if he can. And if any feel that he cannot be happy without 
books, and the leisure and ability to read them, let him get 
them, if he can. I repeat that I consider education to be no 
more than one of the luxuries of life — or a trade, which if any 
wish to practice, let him put himself apprentice to it. I cannot 
alter human nature— nor the laws of the universe. I cannot 
weed out from among you all physical suffering. Nature 
herself is, in fact, your true governor. I look upon you as a 
hive of bees, and I consider the duty of your rulers to consist 
chiefly in standing by, and protecting your hives, and your 
honey, and yourselves from the invasion of enemies — in keeping 
all interlopers out of your garden — and, if you quarrel among 
yourselves and appeal to me, I will settle the dispute in the best 
manner I am able. But as to the best mode of constructing 
your cells, and manufacturing your honey — all that belongs to 
your own private interests — -and is no business of mine — both 
you, and your interests, and your labors, are all under the 
governance of certain laws of your nature, with which I dare 
not ^attempt to interfere — because I am sure her laws are wiser 
than any I could give you, and that your interests will be best 
taken care of if left to the dominion of these laws. No man is 
so well able to take care of another's interest as that other 
himself. I leave your own interests, therefore, to your own 
management — convinced that in doing so, I consult your 
happiness more effectually than by attempting to lift you beyond 
the operations of nature's laws, in order to place you under a 
fallible code of my own. 

All that belongs to the procuration of food must be left 
wholly to yourselves. Nature has made some of you larger and 
stronger than others. These will make most honey, and be 
better off than the others. Some will be able (although 
extremely few) to make no honey at all — and will starve and 
die. It is a pitiful sight to a man of feeling to see this happen. 
But a man of sense, reason, and reflection, who has studied the 

% N 



522 RIGHT. 

nature of bees, and the laws of the universe, knows and sees 
that nature will have it so — and that any attempt to thwart her 
will can only result in still greater suffering — and I think you 
will allow that your lawgivers, be they who they may, ought 
to be guided by sense and reason, and not impelled by 
feeling." 

Then — up jumps the whig improver, and says: "fellow 
countrymen ! Listen not for a moment to the cold-blooded 
language of that blood-thirsty ruffian ! It curdles the milk of 
human kindness to cheese within my bosom, to hear you 
likened to a parcel of paltry bees ! Are you not all men ? — 
endowed with all the dignity of man's intellectual nature ? 
Give the post of honor to me, and I will do such things for you ! 
I will so elevate you in the scale of creation, that your place 
shall be only ' a little lower than the angels/ Every man shall 
have a cosy little cottage to himself — there shall be no such 
thing in the kingdom as starvation, or oppression, or crime, or 
vice, or physical suffering of any kind — at least worth mention- 
ing. All men shall be learned, and wise and good, and be 
compelled to work only just enough to keep them in health. 
No man shall be selfish — but every man shall live chiefly for the 
benefit of his neighbour. All men shall be well-mannered and 
well-dressed — and ignorance and vulgarity, and all rude and 
boisterous mirth shall be an abomination in their sight. I am 
afraid, gentlemen, that I shall be obliged to leave you to eat 
and drink and multiply your kind after nature's vulgar fashion 
still — which is, I blush and grieve to say, after the fashion of 
the beasts of the field. Gentlemen ! this is very humiliating — 
but, I fear, cannot be helped. In all other respects, however, 
I will remove you out of the reach of nature's laws. You shall 
no longer be happy and contented after the manner of brute- 
beasts, but shall enjoy an intellectual happiness worthy of your 
god-like nature." He then proposes a law, with a view to these 
objects, to which the conservative will not consent, knowing that 
these objects are perfectly chimerical. The conservative gives 
his reasons against the law, the whig reiterates his in favor of 
the law. The speeches, it is true, are not made to the people, 
but at them. And the reasons of each are, de facto, only so 



RIGHT. 523 

many reasons put forth to prove to the people that it is to their 
interest that they should allow him to fill the post of honor. 
"You ought to let me fill the post," says the conservative, 
" because my mode of government is most likely to make you 
happy" — and he gives reasons for this opinion. The whig 
says : "you ought to let me fill the post, because my govern- 
ment would be more to your interests" — and then he gives his 
reasons for his opinion. It matters not whether the speeches be 
made on any particular measure, or on general policy. They all 
amount to this : " I want the post of honor." In all this there 
is nothing but a struggle of power against power, and to which 
ever party the people lend their assistance, they do so with the 
sole view of serving their own interests — and the whole matter 
is a matter of self-interest and nothing else. And no other 
natural bond or obligation of any kind is discoverable. 

And the people, having made themselves acquainted with the 
general policy of both parties, have only to consider which is 
best calculated to promote their own happiness. 

However imperfect the conservative policy may be, and has 
been, in some particular instances, it is now mainly based upon 
one broad principle — and that principle is a sound one, because 
it is in conformity with the laws of nature and common sense — 
I mean the principle of non-progression, or things as they are. 
Many of the conservatives were themselves deluded and joined 
the outcry for education. They now see their error — they see 
that the march of intellect is, de facto, a rapid march towards 
an excessive population and human misery — and have wisely 
determined upon the only means which can now be opposed to 
it — the obstruction of a vis inertia?. 

The whigs legislate either upon no principle at all, or upon 
one which is directly opposed to the laws of human nature, and 
to the relation which exists between man and the circumstances 
wherewith he is surrounded — one of which is clearly the relation 
of proportion which must exist between human numbers and the 
extent of the earth's surface. 

Were the earth no larger than the continent of America, 
instead of being about thrice as large, the force of this argument 
would be acknowledged at once. But because the evils of a 

2 n % 



524 RIGHT. 

universal excessive population are as yet remote, it is overlooked. 
Had the state of knowledge been, a few thousand years ago, 
what it is now, the evil of a universal excessive population had 
already reached us. But I say that any universal principle of 
action which would have been wrong three thousand years ago, 
or which will be wrong three thousand years to come, is wrong 
now. That principle must be wrong which has a necessary 
tendency to people the earth whose surface is limited, with a 
population whose numbers are unlimited— or which shall make 
it necessary for nature to interfere with some devastating 
remedy. 

When the earth shall be peopled with the descendants of the 
superior tribes of men alone, one or other of these evils will not 
be far remote. It is the character of the whig government 
(under which title I include the whole tribe of improvers or 
reformers) to legislate for particular instances — for the distress 
of particular classes— the result of which is an almost universal 
clashing of interests. How different is this from that which 
man must always take for his guide and standard, in all his 
affairs, if he would manage them wisely — I mean the wisdom 
of nature — a wisdom which never changes, but is wise once and 
for ever. It is as though nature, when she beheld the open- 
mouthed shark plunging into a shoal of little fishes, should in- 
stantly enact a law to relieve the little fishes from so crying an evil. 

If there be any principle at all in whig legislation, it is the 
principle of what they call improvement — the advancement of 
the arts, the multiplication of manufactures and manufacturing 
powers — additional comfort, and abundance of food for all 
classes — increased facilities of internal commerce — increase of 
wealth — increase of labor — increase in the number and kind of 
human wants — and, therefore, increase in the number and 
kind of human necessaries — and, therefore, increase in the 
difficulty of procuring them, &c, &c. 

But this principle is not only not in accordance with the legisla- 
tion of nature, but has a direct tendency greatly to disturb, more 
or less, the whole of her laws — and to defeat its own object. 
For the immediate effect of this principle is to multiply the 
people in a degree out of all proportion to the good obtained. 



RIGHT. 525 

It converts half the kingdom into a hot-house for forcing the 
growth of the population. While it saves one family from 
starving to-day, it entails starvation upon two or three in the 
next generation. While it makes a few wealthy, it makes the 
great body poor. 

Formerly we had one aristocracy and one body of poor — now 
we have another aristocracy — the aristocracy of commercial 
wealth — and another body of poor called into existence by it. 

To legislate for wealth is to legislate for poverty. 

To legislate for abundance of food and work is to legislate for 
misery and starvation. 

To legislate for more than the necessaries of life, in the shape 
of those little luxuries called comforts, and which, from habit, 
become necessaries, is to legislate for an excessive population, and 
human misery in every shape. 

Another fundamental error in whig legislation is, that it 
yields to the cry of pity — and legislates for feeling, forgetting 
that to gratify compassion for one instance of distress, they 
probably entail the same distress in hundreds of others. 

This system of legislation has already greatly disturbed one 
of nature's most stringent laws — parental affection and love of 
offspring. Men, straining to keep up what is called a respect- 
able standing in society, with means barely sufficient to do so, 
feel their families a burthen upon them. Pride will not suffer 
them to make hedgers and ditchers of their sons, and servants 
of their daughters ; and yet they have not the means of making 
them anything better. From this arises a numerous overtasked 
class of perfect slaves— I mean milliners and dress-makers, and 
school governesses, and shop women, and tradesmen's journey- 
men, and professional men without practice. The lives of these 
are a hundred times more laborious than those of the farmer's 
labourer. But they must wear black coats, and smart dresses — 
they must make a respectable appearance — and for this they 
will submit to any drudgery. 

If you ask a man, now-a-days, if he have any children, the 
answer generally is : " no — thank God" — instead of, " bless 
God, I have." 

It is not now, as fomerly, "happy is the man who has his 
quiver full of them," 



526 RIGHT. 

So great is the evil of excessive population felt to be, that the 
monstrous and unnatural operation of " painless extinction" has 
even been proposed as a remedy. Yes— it has been gravely- 
proposed (I give this on the authority of the Rev. Baptist 
Noel's pamphlet against the corn laws) that all the children of 
the poor, after the third, should be destroyed before birth. 

The Hon. and Rev. Baptist W. Noel has written a pamphlet 
against the corn laws. If it be praiseworthy to have a feeling 
heart, the Rev. Baptist Noel is a praiseworthy man. But that is 
a false humanity which cures one man of the palsy, and infects, 
by the remedy, two of his grand-children with the leprosy. If 
the corn laws were abolished, the author says it is astonishing 
how much the " comforts" of the poor would be increased. 
Had the author felt less and reasoned more, he would have 
discovered that this same legislation for " comforts'*' is one of the 
main causes of the distress which he seeks to alleviate. If it 
were certain that the abolition of the corn laws would produce 
all the immediate results which the author anticipates, it would 
nevertheless be unsound policy to abolish them. 

Much distress must be endured now, that a tenfold distress 
may be avoided in the years that are to come. 

B. 

But how is it that we have got into this anomalous condition? 

A. 

Oh ! it is by virtue of one of the old laws — one of nature's 
laws — which, however much they may be disturbed, can never be 
abolished. We are now beginning to undergo the punishment 
for having disturbed the law which ordains that superior 
might shall gratify its self-love at the expense of weakness. 
The natural law is, that this superior might shall be (chiefly) 
physical. 

In order to ascertain any natural law with regard to man, you 
must observe man in a state of nature. And in this condition it 
is physical strength which elevates one man above his fellow. 

In the physical contest for power — in the petty warfare of 
primitive tribe against tribe — there is a certain amount of loss of 
life. This is what men call an evil. But it is an evil of nature's 
own ordination. It is one of the means to which she resorts in 



RIGHT. 527 

order to maintain the due proportion between the amount of the 
earth's population, and the productive power of its surface to 
supply its population with food. 

With the inferior animals, the stronger prey upon the weaker 
for food. Man has no superior animal to prey upon him for 
food. It was necessary, therefore, that man should war against 
man in order to avoid that excess of multiplication which, with 
the lower animals, is guarded against by making the stronger 
prey upon the weaker for food. 

Men have sought to abolish this law — and, in so doing, have 
aggravated the evil ten thousand-fold. For who will deny that 
the number of deaths in any highly cultivated community is not 
incalculably greater than in any primitive community, both 
absolutely, and relatively, to their numbers ? Recollect that, in 
the civilized world, two-thirds of mankind perish before their 
thirty-ninth year ! 

The spread of knowledge has introduced a new power, which, 
while it multiplies human deaths and miseries a thousand-fold, 
nevertheless, multiplies births with a still greater rapidity. 

That man was intended by nature to be " a field animal/' as 
Dr. Blundel calls him, and not a manufacturing animal, is suffi- 
ciently proved to the contemplative man by the fact that, while 
agricultural labor contributes to health and strength, the labors 
of the factory necessarily and invariably injure both. I say, 
this alone, to a contemplative mind, would be proof sufficient 
against the multiplication of factories. 

When men discovered a new and rapid means of propagating 
and increasing knowledge, they fancied they had discovered a 
means of abolishing nature's law that the strong shall oppress 
the weak. Whereas they had only discovered a new means of 
effecting the same object — and of placing the power to oppress 
in different hands. They have only withdrawn the power to 
oppress from a superior organization of bone and muscle, and 
transferred it to a superior organization of brain. 

Thus nature's genuine law has been disturbed to gratify the 
self-love of the strong-brained few, instead of the strong-limbed 
few, and the weak-brained many and the strong-limbed many are 
now suffering the consequences of this disturbed law. 



528 RIGHT. 

To multiply laws is to multiply crime, since the great majority 
of crimes are breaches, not of the natural, i. e. the divine, but of 
human laws — and are, therefore, offences against man merely, and 
not against God. But all crimes must be punished. To mul- 
tiply laws, therefore, is to multiply human punishments, i. e. 
human miseries. 

Thus the law between debtor and creditor is an unnecessary 
law, and one productive of infinite misery. Nature had already 
provided a law between debtor and creditor — the law of self-love 
— which here takes the name of self-aggrandisement. 

B. 

But if there were no law between debtor and creditor, what 
would become of our great commercial interests ? 

A. 

Ay- — there it is. You would legislate for commercial wealth — 
I for popular happiness — that is, happiness to the greatest 
number. Had there been no law between debtor and creditor, 
it is true that we should have been a less wealthy, but a far 
happier people. We should have been a less numerous people, a 
less overtasked people, a less cultivated and less refined people, a 
more ill-dressed and more ill-mannered people, a less manufac- 
turing people, a more agricultural people, a less diseased, a less 
suicidal, a less maimed, crippled, and mutilated people — a more 

CONTENTED PEOPLE. 

The laws between debtor and creditor have begotten a false 
confidence — a false confidence has begotten a false credit — 
a false credit has begotten a false and bloated bubble of a trade 
which, for every one which it enriches, ruins a hundred, and 
entails upon them the miseries of disappointed hope and degraded 
pride. They have begotten a false wealth to the many, as well as 
a real wealth to the few — false tastes, false desires, false neces- 
saries, false pride, false notions of respectability, false hopes, false 
crimes, false punishments, false notions of happiness, and nothing 
real, but human misery. 

Were there no laws between debtor and creditor, it is perfectly 
true that there would be no commercial aristocracy — but then 
there would be a greater number of happy, because a greater 
number of solvent, tradesmen- — while there could not be any such 
thing in the kingdom as an insolvent tradesman. 



RIGHT. 529 

It is also perfectly true that there would be much less work 
for the poor. But then there would be a much smaller number 
of hands to perform it. % 

It is a fundamental error, because directly opposed to the fun- 
damental laws of nature, to suppose that a people cannot be too 
well fed, clothed, lodged, or surrounded with too many 'comforts/ 

It is a fundamental error, because opposed to the fundamental 
laws of nature, to suppose that there is any other natural rela- 
tion or bond between the governing body, and the body governed, 
than that of self-interest. 

It is a fundamental error, because opposed to the fundamental 
laws of nature, to suppose that there is any other relation or 
bond between man and man (excepting parental affection) than 
self-interest. 

The Rev. Baptist Noel says : ct a distinguished opponent of 
the repeal of the present corn laws, after describing the present 
sufferings of the manufacturers, their lowered wages, and their 
increasing number, adds : { I confess it is frightful to con- 
template such a state of things and of society, but it can no 
longer be concealed; and yet the only remedy seems to be to 
diminish their sources of employment, in order to produce future 
or permanent good/ " 

This " distinguished writer" — not the Bev. Baptist Noel, 
but the writer whom he quotes— has hit the right nail on the 
head. 

Now in what manner does the Rev. Baptist Noel answer this 
distinguished writer ? Does he argue the question with him ? 
Does he examine the validity or invalidity of his statement ? 
Not a bit of it. He proceeds thus : " inadequate employment 
has stripped their dwellings bare, driven them to dark cellars, 
loaded the pawn-brokers' shops, &c." Mere declamation ! 
Well ! granted. But what then ? Does not the Rev. Baptist 
Noel perceive that the true question is, not what has " stripped 
their dwellings bare" — for all the world know very well that 
their dwellings have been " stripped" by inadequate employment 
— but the true question is, what is the cause of that inadequate 
employment ? To which the plain answer is, a redundant popu- 
lation. Then comes the question : "what is the cause of the 
redundant population V To which I answer : " that false 



530 EIGHT. 

legislation which has given an undue, unnatural, and forcing 
stimulus to the multiplication of men by legislating for wealth 
and luxury, and for the growth of those population hot-houses, 
the manufacturing towns. In a word, legislation for the im- 
provement of human kind, and the increase and dissemination 
of human knowledge and human inventions, which have given 
rise to that false and over-populating power — the power of 
mechanical machinery — a power which feeds a starving few 
to-day, that twice their number may be starved a few years 
hence. 

We are now beginning to reap the evils of having provided 
too well for the poor — of having legislated for their " comforts" 
instead of for the necessaries of life. The Rev. Baptist Noel would 
remedy the evil by giving an additional fillip to its cause. A little 
further on he repudiates the remedy of this distinguished writer, 
because it is c( cruel." Heard ever anybody the like of such 
argument as this ! What ! So I must not have my leg ampu- 
tated in order to save my life, or my whole body from suffering, 
because amputation is a cruel and painful operation ! This 
comes of allowing a morbid sensibility to supersede reason and 
common sense. Does he not admit the principle that the few 
must suffer for the many ? that the smaller evil must be 
endured in order to avoid the greater ? If not, then he must 
be an advocate for the still farther diminution of the employ- 
ment of the poor by the abolition of rail- ways and steam-boats. 
For since these are only encouraged by government on the 
ground that they are for the public good, nothing can be clearer 
than that all those persons who have lost their lives by rail-way 
and steam-boat accidents are victims sacrificed to the public 
good. For any machinery which produced such wholesale 
destruction of human life would not be suffered if it were only 
to secure a private and individual advantage. Thus, when Mr. 
Cocking lost his life by ascending in a parachute, the magis- 
trates interfered to prevent others from doing the like. And 
yet it is pretended that there are no human sacrifices in these 
enlightened days ! 

B. 

But the travelling by rail- ways and steam-boats is a voluntary 
act — and the risk a voluntary risk. 



I 



RIGHT. 531 

A. 

Out upon such bare-faced equivocation ! Is not the act of the 
Hindu, who throws himself beneath the wheels of Juggernaut's 
car, a voluntary act ? Was not Mr. Cocking' s a voluntary act ? 
Why is the voluntary death of the Hindu to be called a human 
sacrifice, and the voluntary death of the rail-way traveller not 
so ? Nothing can be clearer than that those who die by steam 
accidents are human sacrifices to the public good — just as much 
so as those human victims sacrificed by the Druids to propitiate 
their gods for the public welfare. 

I have not sought these reflections. They have come to me 
unsought and unbidden — arising as necessary corollaries out of 
my general reasonings, in the course of my professional studies, 
on the laws of the universe, and especially with regard to those 
laws which relate to the nature of man. 

The spread of education and knowledge set the people a 
thinking and reasoning, and lost Rome her church — at least in 
England. Is there no danger lest it lose us ours ? Is there 
nothing in our church, reformed as it is, but what is substanti- 
ally and really necessary to the true and heartfelt worship of God? 
Is there nothing in her forms and ceremonies and government 
at which superficial thinkers may carp? Have they not already 
begun to pick the mortar from her wells — to take away here a 
buttress and there a buttress — here a stone and there a stone — 
saying : " the building will stand firm enough without this, and 
this, and this V But I say, if you would save the structure 
from utter ruin, not a chip should be stricken from a single 
stone in her walls. For however minute the chip so stricken 
off, it surely though imperceptibly weakens the fabric. 

It is far better to believe too much than too little. And if we 
once turn utilitarians, and determine to sweep away everything 
which has not a direct and manifest utility — everything which 
savours of mummery and imposture— the broom must be carried 
clean through every grade of society from top to bottom. 

What are the forms and ceremonies of the law, and the 
absurd and inconvenient dresses of the judges and barristers, 
but most manifest mummery ? But would it be well to abolish 
these ? Surely not — for they excite more reverence for the law 



532 RIGHT. 

than anything inherent in the law itself; and it is necessary that 
this reverence should exist — and the manner how that necessary 
reverence is obtained is of little consequence. 

I am no stickler for particular creeds — but I observe, through 
all the tribes of men, that a religious creed, of some sort or 
other, exists. Therefore I conclude that nature deemed it 
necessary. And I can easily perceive how it contributes to the 
happiness and well-being of men, even here upon earth. But 
the spread of education threatens to leave us- — us — the enlight- 
ened of the world — without any religious creed at all. 

The condition of the masses is one of inevitable toil and what 
the rich call hardship. If there were no other objection to the 
spread of a superficial education among them, (and it is impos- 
sible to give them more) it would be a sufficiently substantial 
objection, that it makes them discontented with their lot in life, 
envious of, and spiteful against, those whom fortune has more 
favored, and induces them to repudiate the happiness within 
their reach, and to fret away their lives in anxious, and painful, 
and struggling, but fruitless efforts to escape from a fate which, 
to the great multitude is, of course, inevitable. 

B. 

Have you no remedy to offer for the many evils which afflict 
society at the present moment ? 

A. 

I am no nostrum-monger — but I observe, everywhere, that 
particular evils will cure themselves when the cause which 
produced them ceases to operate — though at the expense of 
much inevitable human suffering. 

The fundamental cause of all is the insane cry for human 
improvement, for an impossible perfection, for human elevation, 
human invention, increase of wealth, increase of manufactures, 
increase of knowledge, increase of machinery, increase of trade — 
because all these are so many unnatural stimuli given to the in- 
crease of population. Let the vis inertia of government be 
opposed to these, and, in time, the ship will right herself. 

Let there be no more acts of parliaments passed to compel 
men to sell their lands, and their houses, and their ancestral 
patrimonies, in order to enable a company to enrich themselves 



RIGHT. 533 

by erecting railways, and digging canals, and such like things, 
under pretence of their being public permanent benefits. They 
are not permanent public benefits — but temporary benefits and 
permanent evils. If a number of men want a quantity of land 
on which to build a railway, let them make the best bargain 
they can with the proprietors. Leave men to take care of their 
own interests — leave human nature to the operation of its own 
laws — and the public good will be consulted more efficiently than 
by any human contrivances. 

Of course, all compulsory retrogressive measures are out of the 
question. The vis inertia of government will be sufficient. 

While nothing more stable and consistent than human 
opinion is made the basis of legislation, legislation must ever be 
unstable and inconsistent. 

I wrote to three intelligent friends, all of them whigs, and 
requested them to picture to me that condition of society which 
they desired to see established. 

The first replies to me thus. Read his letter. 

B. 

" This is the state that society should endeavour to attain. 
The agrarian law, or the fee simple of the empire, to be the 
property of every soul living in it, on the basis of equality. By 
this I mean, the rental of all the buildings on the soil as well 
as of the soil itself. Out of this provide for the expenses of the 
government, and then divide the remainder. No person to be 
allowed to alienate this his birthright, even for a day. No law 
faith. No other distinctions among men than official rank. 
The qualification for voting a moderate degree of intelligence. 33 

A. 

My friend is a man of intelligence. 

B. 

" Debt to be regarded as a moral obligation only, and no legal 
enforcement to compel payment." 

A. 

Here are extracts from the letter of the second. 

B. 

" I would have every man thoroughly educated and taught to 
know himself — communities, nay, even nations, might become, 



534 RIGHT. 

and probably would be, as fearful of giving pain to each other, 
as are well-regulated and affectionate families" 

A. 
That is to say, a man living on one side of the globe shall 
love all his antipodes whom he never saw, and whose language he 
cannot understand, with the same fondness with which a mother 
loves her child — and so the law of parental affection, or love of 
offspring, become an unnecessary law. Go on. 

B. 
e< I would adopt that really admirable suggestion of Mr. Owen 
• — his first — ' co-operation for mutual benefit' — in the place of 
that selfish, inhuman, and abhorrent principle of competition." 

A. 
Whatever is universally practised by human beings cannot be 
inhuman — and selfishness is the strongest of all nature's laws. 

B. 
" My panacea, you will perceive, is founded on the real and 
absolute elevation of what is called the lower classes — and the 
nominal, but not real lowering of the upper. I am decidedly 
and unequivocally of opinion that no happiness can be complete 
that does not give to all the highest degree of intellectual 
refinement. I claim for all mankind an equal and inalienable 
right of being rendered physically happy by the possession of 
abundance of food, and raiment, and shelter." 

A. 
'Tis as possible for possible things to be impossible, as for 
things which we see every day alienated, to be inalienable. For 
it is surely clear that that which is inalienable cannot be alienated. 
There can be no such thing, therefore, as this " inalienable right' 3 
which the writer claims for all mankind." 

B. 
" All the cravings of nature ought to be satisfied — but under 
the guidance of reason." 

A. 
Whose reason ? 

B. 
The writer does not say. 
" See that beautiful village—beautiful as a whole, and beau- 



RIGHT. 535 

tiful in every part. Nothing meets the eye but what is perfect 
symmetry—- sculpture breathing with life externally, and paint- 
ings more lovely, if possible, than nature itself, cover every wall 
internally. In every house is a room stored with well-chosen 
books. In one of the rooms is the humblest inhabitant of this 
village. Look at him — there is intelligence and benevolence 
beaming in his countenance. He has just returned from the 
cultivation of that well-stored and well-arranged farm. He has 
finished his six-hours' cheerful labor, and has entered his study 
that he may exercise his mental powers, as he has done his 
bodily. What do I see on his table ? There is Horace, and 
Virgil, and Cicero, and Demosthenes. There is Euclid and 
Bacon, Locke and Home Tooke." 

A. 

Home Tooke ! No — not Home Tooke — that's impossible ! 

But whither am I to go in order to see this " happy village V 
Has it ever existed, or can it ever exist anywhere but in the 
writer's fancy? And would it be thought and felt to be a 
" happy village" by men of all tastes ? 

It is quite manifest that this state of things, as well as that 
imagined by the Agrarian lawgiver, could only be effected by an 
entire subversion of all the laws of human nature, and of the 
appetites, passions, tastes, instincts, and caprices of men. My 
object, however, is not to argue against the opinions of my friends, 
but simply to place them in juxta-position. 

The third enters pretty minutely into detail, under the heads 
of government, religion, education, and the administration of 
justice. Contrary, however, to the Agrarian lawgiver, he men- 
tions property as a necessary qualification of voters. (My friend 
is a man of property.) 

I wrote again to this gentleman, saying, that I did not desire 
to know the machinery with which he proposed to work, but 
only the results which he desired should be produced by the 
agency of that machinery. To this he replies : " I freely 
confess I cannot answer your question satisfactorily. I have 
given you a brief outline of the machinery to be used in the 
management of society, as far as it can be managed, and the 
result I would leave." 



536 RIGHT. 

Now to construct a piece of machinery without knowing 
before-hand what is the nature of the work which it is intended 
to accomplish — and to set it agoing and adoing without knowing 
whither it is to go, and what it is to do — looks to me a little 
like beginning at the wrong end. 

Now here are three legislators, intelligent men, having paid a 
good deal of attention to politics, all reformers, yet each differing 
fundamentally from the other two, and seeking to adopt a form 
of government, and a state of society, which the other two 
could not approve. 

It is quite clear that not one of these lawgivers legislates for 
the public good, but only in order to bring about that state of 
society which would best please himself — without even stopping 
to inquire whether the same condition would be equally pleasant 
to other folks. Each one is, in fact, only legislating for his own 
particular mode of happiness ; and thinks that no man can be 
happy unless it be after his own fashion. He measures the 
likings and dislikings of all the world by his own — and erects 
his own opinions, his own tastes, his own habits, his own 
feelings, into a standard by which he would have all other men 
level and measure their own. It is precisely the same — there is 
not an iota of difference — as though a man, who prefers roast 
mutton to all other food, should insist upon all mankind pre- 
ferring the same dish. 

So much for human legislation founded on human opinion 
instead of on the infinite wisdom manifested in the laws of 
nature. 

It is curious to hear men daily boasting of their love of 
nature, and abhorrence of art — deprecating the worst of all 
possible crimes by the terms of " unnatural and monstrous" — • 
and yet living, daily and hourly, all their lives, in constant 
hostility to nature and her laws — the slaves of the arti- 
ficial. 



BURTON, PRINTER, IPSWICH. 



ERE AT A. 

Page 43, line 15 from top — for understood, read understand. 
43, line 20 — for definitely, read definitively. 

43, last line — for Lord Tenterden, read Mr. Justice Little- 

dale. 

44, line 28- — for Lord Tenterden, read Mr. Justice Little- 

dale. 

74, line 28 — for dreone, read dreore. 

88, last line but 1 — for repetition, read reputation. 
Ill, line 24 — for Mocheles, read Moscheles. 
352, line 6 — after understand insert them. 
354, line 1 7 — for Kaoou, read Xocoov. 
388, line 25 — for sense, read senses. 
408, line 27 — for these, read i^eir. 
422, line 20 ^ 
422 1' 21 J ^ or mo3nan > rea( ^ mcenan. 

424, last line but 3 — for is, read are. 

424, line 14 from bottom— after gen insert or gn. 



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